


holy things

by chochangs (novelteas)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Marauders Friendship (Harry Potter), Slow Burn, The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, i'll put in more specific warnings if i need to in a/ns, some violence because remus is a literal werewolf, vis-a-vis sirius, y'all know i love some marauders era fic.....blurryeyes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:33:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 93,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25855963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novelteas/pseuds/chochangs
Summary: The Marauders: Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs, plus some familiar faces, through the years. [~1970-1998]
Relationships: James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 23
Kudos: 48





	1. prologue. night sky

**Author's Note:**

> what's up ladies and theydies, i am literally always thinking about marauders!era hp and how badly i want a full series on them (thank u to any writers who have marauders!era fics like i love you all SO much you have no idea jdsflkdsjflsk) and since jk r*wling is dead to me i am now here with my own hot takes. this fic has obviously been planned like an hp prequel but i intend to kind of carry it through to the end of the second wizarding war (at least i've planned for chapters that happen in like the canon universe lol). 
> 
> also duh the tags show wolfstar and jily, but i am also a cho chang stan if nothing else, so i get inexplicably detailed about cho chang's parents later on lol i'm sorry but that's the price you have to pay to read my nonsense
> 
> ALSO i am so bad at writing openings so please forgive the fact that the first 4 chapters i've written are like ... going in circles. the vibe gets better by like ch 6 i promise. you might also be able to tell that this is un-beta'd. i'll fix errors lol. i am sorry i am an inconsistent little bitch!! lmao
> 
> finally i can't believe i have to say this but just so there's no confusion, i hate jkr! like ok thank you for the concept and the universe but this is a terf-free zone! and this fic is about to be my love letter to all the tragically underdeveloped characters that she really just slept on. that said, pls enjoy.

_my mother said i could be anything  
_ _i wanted — but i chose to live._

— ocean vuong, _night sky with exit wounds_

**_february 1965_ **

Someone screams.

Remus wrenches his eyes open and squeezes them shut again almost immediately as pain shoots through his body. It would be comical, cruelly hilarious, if it wasn’t so painful; Remus imagines a cartoon-ish scene as he feels the floor dragging along beneath his body. The screaming continues, piercingly loud, matched only by his father’s shouting and the sound of glass shattering.

“Let _go_ of my son, or you _will_ regret it, Greyback!”

The vice around his shoulder loosens and Remus cries out, trying to catch himself as he falls. Spots blur his vision; his body feels like it’s on fire and the noise around him is starting to fade in and out, though the shaking of the floor suggests his father is still trying to exact revenge on whatever is in his room. 

“You’ll be the one who’s going to live a life of regret!” an unfamiliar voice shoots back, and Remus yells again as something unseen picks him up and throws him across the room. The screaming intensifies, then cuts off abruptly as one last _bang_ rings through the entire cottage, rattling the windows.

“I’m going to find and _kill him_!”

Remus has never heard his father so angry before; if he wasn’t already crying, he thinks the sound of his fury might be enough to do the trick. Warm hands press themselves to his face and he struggles to open his eyes, searching for their owner. His mother’s face looms above him, pale and tearful. Her voice has died down to an apprehensive whimper, and Remus can feel her fingers shaking as they brush over his skin. She jerks away at the sound of another crash in the room; Remus winces at the shock it sends through his tiny body. He tries to open his mouth, tries to ask his mother to hold his face again, tries to tell her he wants nothing more than the safety of her touch, but she stands up and he’s left alone on the floor to wonder what’s happening. 

“I’ll _kill him_!”

“ _Lyall_!”

“I don’t care what the Ministry says, I'll — ”

“Lyall, _please_!” Remus hears the crack in his mother’s voice and he reaches out blindly, desperately, for her hand. “Remus — your _son_ — is — he’s — he’s — _please_ , just _help_ , I don’t know what to do — ” Her pleading seems to bring her husband back to his senses, and Remus groans as his father’s hand peels back his bloodied shirt, trying to assess the damage. The fresh air blowing in through the broken window is like a fresh knife to his skin; the pain worse than anything Remus thought could have ever been possible to bear. 

“I need to bring him to St. Mungo’s,” his father says finally. Remus tries to open his eyes again, but screwing up his face is apparently the only thing that distracts from the searing pain. “Hope, stay here. I’ll come back for you once the healers have seen to him.”

“The window — ”

“I can fix it later. I need to take him now. We don’t have long.”

Remus lets out a moan, low in the back of his throat, and someone runs a hand through his hair. His mother’s muffled crying echoes in his head, paired with his father’s enraged shouting and the blinding series of jinxes that had passed through his room, as if on an endless loop. Someone keeps tracing a shape on the back of his hand, a pattern that swirls its way up and down his wrist, around his thumb and across his palm and back over his knuckles; he tries to grab the hand but it keeps disappearing, slipping away just when he thinks he has it at last. Voices swim about in a murky fog; he can pick out his mother’s clearly and nothing else. Every time he tries to open his eyes, he’s faced with overwhelming nausea and forced to shut them soon after. When he finally manages to stare up at the unfamiliar ceiling paneling above him for more than five seconds, the pain in his stomach has softened to an dull throb, and the horrifying mixture of sounds he’s been hearing for some unidentified time have seemingly dissolved into nothing, replaced by a soothing murmur. 

He glances to his left. His father is sitting, asleep, in an overstuffed armchair next to his bed, a half-folded piece of parchment in his hand, which dangles loosely over the side of the chaise; his other arm is wrapped around his wife, Remus’ mother, who’s curled herself up to fit in the tiny space next to him. Remus clenches his fist, aching to feel her hand in his again.

“Mum?” he whispers, the word coming out in a sequence of stilted sounds, barely a complete word. His voice stays trapped in his throat, held back by a thick but invisible barrier. “Dad?”

Hope Lupin stirs, opens her eyes, stares blankly ahead as though she’s forgotten where and how she managed to fall asleep, and then scrambles out of the chair as if shot. “Remus!” she gasps, dropping to her knees beside him and seizing his hand. “Lyall, quick, Remus is — ”

Remus has to look up sharply, craning his neck, to watch as his father blinks awake and stands, pocketing the parchment in his coat after a moment of temporary puzzlement. “Hope,” he says, with a gentle but firm hand on her shoulder, “go get yourself some tea. Go on, it’s on the fifth floor.” Remus watches, curious, as his mother smiles a very watery smile and rises to her feet again. Lyall presses a handful of coins into her hand and sends her off with a gentle push, then conjures a chair next to Remus’ bed and sinks into it heavily. 

“Your mother’s not well,” he says, folding his hands in his lap. “She’s driven herself a bit sick with worry.” Guilt and confusion pool together in Remus’ mind — for a sickening moment, he can barely remember why he is even here instead of in his room at home, until he feels the uncomfortable pain in his stomach — and it must show on his face, because Lyall sits up quickly and adds, “I think it’s a bit more shocking for Muggles, these kinds of magical attacks. It’s all a little confusing for them.”

 _Magical attacks_.

“Of course,” Remus’ father continues, “the healers here at St. Mungo’s are some of the best in the world. There’s nothing — very little — they can’t fix with some dittany and good wandwork.” 

Remus is silent. Young as he is, he’s unexpectedly precocious and perceptive, and he senses a _but_ waiting to rear its head. His father’s face is lined with worry; he looks as if he’s aged several years since Remus last saw him barging through his bedroom door, wand outstretched. Perhaps it has to do with his furor then; maybe anger is the reason for this inexplicable aging. Remus lifts a hand in front of his face tentatively, looking for signs of his own age, wondering for a moment whether he’s inadvertently slept for three years. “Why’s Mum confused?” He coughs once, trying to clear his throat. “What’s — what’s so confusing?”

Lyall ignores these questions. “Remus, do you remember what happened that night?”

Remus nods. Everything after the initial moment of attack feels like a strange blur of half-dreamed, half-real scenes, but thinking back, the events of that night seem clearer now than when they were actually happening. The foreboding anxiety he felt at the sound of scratching at his window, the sudden sharp pain that raked over his body, the sensation of his arm being wrenched out of its socket as he was pulled from his bed, the way he wanted to scream when he saw yellow eyes glowering at him in the dark — those are all so clear, so _fresh_ , as if sleeping in a charm-induced haze for however long has somehow cleared up all the fuzzy spots in his memory. He tugs at his father’s sleeve. “What’s wrong with Mum?”

Lyall pats his son’s head and smiles as if in pain. “Nothing’s wrong with your mum,” he says. Then he buries his face in his hands and pinches the bridge of his nose, studying his son through his fingers. “It’s very difficult to explain — you won’t understand until you’re much older. But I — I owe you an apology for now.”

“Dad, what are we — ” Remus begins, but he’s interrupted by his mother’s return. She appears just as pale as she had when he’d stared up at her from the floor of his bedroom an unknown eternity ago. A mournful expression flickers across her face when she looks back at him, but it’s quickly smothered. Remus watches as his father waves his wand without even looking, pulling up another chair, where his mother perches herself. Her hands are shaking, and Remus is reminded of her trembling fingers skimming over his face that night. 

“Have you told him?” she whispers, eyes wide.

Lyall hangs his head. Remus sits expectantly and waits for his father to say something; this is his father, who knows how to identify every plant and creature under the sky, who carries him on his shoulders and points out all the constellations at night, who explains the mechanics and theory of magic to him as if they are colleagues and not a father and son sharing a bedtime story. His father has never been short of words before, and it suddenly occurs to Remus that perhaps this is what he’s apologizing for: he is sorry for the unexpected introduction to the world of _Things Lyall Lupin Does Not Know How To Handle_. He is sorry he doesn’t have an answer. He is sorry he doesn’t have an explanation. 

**//**

**_july 1965_ **

Remus wakes up on his bedroom floor, a location that has become increasingly familiar over the course of the last few months. His window is closed, but the summer humidity still hangs in the air and clings to his skin, suffocating him. He presses his cheek to the bare floor and lies still for an extra minute, waiting for moment when the feverish chills that follow his transformations will inevitably take hold. With a slight whine, he reaches up to his bed, patting around on the mattress for a blanket to tug over himself. The blanket he grabs hold of was apparently torn apart the night before: a large portion of it is missing and one edge boasts an offensive number of loose and unravelling threads. Biting his tongue to keep from groaning out loud, Remus pulls himself into a sitting position and waits for his parents to unlock his door. 

It was a point of significant debate between them a few months ago: where should he be left to transform? Surely it would be cruel to lock him inside like a prisoner, to treat him like a caged animal, to underscore the abruptness with which his childhood was replaced by . . . whatever he was now. But cruel as it is to lock him in, letting him loose in the woods a mile out from their house is out of the question for Lyall, who fears the worst from the neighbors, not to mention what the Ministry would do if they find out a prominent member of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures has an unrestrained werewolf for a son. 

Remus can hear his parents’ muffled voices emerging from their room down the hall and he sits up a little straighter, checking himself over for new wounds. The last thing he wants is to make his mother cry the way she did the first time he transformed, he thinks, twisting around to see over his shoulder. A rather nasty set of claw marks has joined the array of scars he’s already starting to accumulate on his chest, but as he prods the tender skin with a finger, it seems to have at least stopped bleeding. He casts a wary glance around the rest of his room; though looking more or less as if a hurricane whirled its way through, there’s little else to indicate the violence of last night’s transformation. No blood on the walls. That’s good.

His father’s voice sounds in a low murmur just outside his room, and the lock clicks as a hand clenching a wand pushes the door open. 

“Oh, thank God,” Hope breathes, pushing past her husband and rushing to Remus’ side. Remus shies away instinctively from her touch, and Hope stands again, embarrassed, to survey the damage. “I’ll get you another blanket,” she says, and sweeps out of the room again.

Remus watches her go and turns his gaze to his father, who is still lingering in the doorway, wand outstretched. “How was it?” his father asks lightly, clearing his throat and waving his wand to clean up the room. “Does anything — does anything hurt?”

Remus doesn’t bother answering; they both know the question is beyond his ability to respond. “Mum’s scared of me,” he says finally, trying to pull his knees to his chest. He wants to make himself smaller, as small as he can possibly be, prove to his parents that he isn’t a monster.

His father rights a chair that’s been knocked over and sits down, elbows on his knees. “She’s not,” he said, but he doesn’t sound very convinced. “This is — this is just _new_ for her. It’s new to both of us.”

“You’re not scared of me,” Remus points out. 

Lyall opens his mouth and then sighs as if stopping himself from inadvertently saying anything incendiary at last the last second. “It’s different, between me and your mum,” he said. “She didn’t grow up in this world, knowing about this kind of thing. I’m — ” and he cuts off again, squeezing his eyes shut. “You’ll understand when you’re older.”

Remus frowns. His father has been saying this on repeat for the last four months since the attack. Remus will coax half an answer out of his father, the words will be sitting on his lips, ready to be freed, and then his father will shake his head and lock them away somewhere, to be opened at a later date. _Not now_ , he’ll say, _it's_ _complicated. You’re too_ _young_ , _you’ll understand later. I’ll explain when you’re older_. 

Remus knows there’s something his parents aren’t telling him. When he isn’t mindlessly scratching at the walls and the floor and the window that is now kept bolted shut, when he can think for himself and remember his name and where he was and how he came to be, it eats through his thoughts. He longs to know what it is that makes his father’s forehead wrinkle the way it does, settling in an almost permanent _v_ between his brows. He doesn’t want to wait to be older, he wants to know _now_ , he’s older _now_ , his childhood has been stolen from him, it’s only fair that he gets to reap the reward _now_ , that he gets an answer for why it has to be this way. Suddenly awash with irritation, he glares at his father with suspicion until Hope returns, a pile of blankets in her arms and her eyes red and glassy. Remus pretends not to notice, wrapping the blanket around himself as he crawls into bed and rolls onto his side, facing away from his parents. 

His mother puts a hand, more confident this time, on his shoulder. “Are you hungry? Do you want anything to eat?”

Remus shakes his head. Transforming leaves him nauseous and the thought of eating breakfast at the moment is about as appealing as pouring a cup of cement into his mouth. He wishes his parents would leave him alone; he knows he makes them just as uncomfortable as he feels. 

“Give us a shout if you need anything,” his father says, patting him through the covers. 

Remus nods mechanically and pulls the blanket tighter around himself. He thinks he can hear his mother whisper something, but he can’t stand to ask her to repeat herself. Instead, he stews in self-pitying silence while his parents back out of his room and close his door, this time without the telltale _click_ of the lock securing behind them, and he returns to his previous state of half-conscious thought.

The transformations themselves have proven to be terrifying, but Remus is almost more afraid of the dreams he has afterwards: horrifyingly real visions of his parents lying at his feet, ripped to shreds; an entire village decimated while he screams and hungers for more; being locked in a cage, a real one this time, not just the magically reinforced boundaries of his room, while Ministry officials decide how best to have him killed. He sleeps fitfully, tossing and turning and trying his best to ignore his aching joints and ringing ears and throbbing head. A troupe of ghostly figures appear in his sleep and sneer at him as his hands pull against a set of restraints; his parents flash through his mind again, bloodied and still alive, their voices oddly high-pitched and breathy, while they chase him around his room, swearing revenge, and he searches for an impossible escape; a set of yellow eyes glows at him, the scars on his shoulder and stomach twinge unhappily at the memory, and Remus wakes up again, sweating and shivering, yelling for his parents.

**//**

Several hundred miles away from where Remus Lupin lies trapped in feverish sleep, Sirius Black lies on his bed, awake, in an equally disoriented stupor. He sits up again, snatches the mirror off his bedside table, and stares at his reflection, studying his rapidly swelling eye and the fresh marks on his face. 

The bedroom door swings open without warning and Sirius tosses the mirror back on the table, startled by the sudden appearance of his mother. She regards him with something short of disgust, then snaps, “What are you doing? Get up.”

Sirius stands, staring doubtfully up at his mother. Though Walburga Black isn’t tall to begin with, the way she glares coldly down her nose at him seems to add an extra foot to her height. Sirius resists the urge to reach up with his hand and hide the bruising; he can feel his face burning under her intense scrutiny.

“What happened to your face?”

“What do you mean?” Sirius shoots back, fighting to keep from touching the welt on his cheek again. It’s a stupid question. There’s no doubt that his father’s tirade was heard by everyone in the house. Even Kreacher must have caught snippets of it, holed up in his miserable den under the sink. “I shouldn’t have been in the library.”

“No, you shouldn’t have been,” Walburga agrees, though she reaches out with a heavily-jewelled hand and grabs Sirius by the chin, turning his face to look at his eye more clearly with a hint of what seems like sympathy. “You know better than to disturb your father. Go see Kreacher for some Murtlap essence. You can’t show up to supper tonight like this, not when Cygnus and your cousins are coming. And stay out of your father’s way.”

Sirius nods and lifts a hand to his face as soon as his mother releases him, running his fingers over the spot where she seized his jaw. He watches, dumbfounded, as she turns on her heel and sweeps out of his room, having apparently achieved whatever it is she originally came in to do — find something to criticise, surely. He passes on her order to find Kreacher and throws himself back upon his bed, mirror in hand, tilting his head this way and that. The bruise will be a neat shade of mauve by evening, he guesses, and if his mother thinks it will be embarrassing to look at, then he has every intention of keeping it looking as nasty as possible.

In fact, it’s only the idea of watching his parents squirm at the sight of his face, in front of an audience no less, that forces Sirius to eventually get up and dress for supper. He has little desire otherwise to see his uncle, who has the same severe snappishness of Walburga with none of her regal beauty; Sirius’ enthusiasm is even further diminished by the prospect of having to spend the whole meal shunted off to one end of the table with his cousins, who are home from school for the holidays, and who will undoubtedly spend the entire meal talking about things that he will still have to wait years to experience. 

Sure enough, when Sirius finally finishes knotting his tie and makes his way down the stairs, taking them two at a time and slowing to a respectable pace when the foyer comes into view, he can hear his mother asking his cousins about school. A wave of jealousy knots his stomach at the thought of being sent off for school. He can hardly wait to be free of his parents’ watchful eyes and insufferable rules. 

“Ah, here he is,” Walburga says, her lips pressing together so tightly they nearly vanish from sight. “Sirius, come say hello to your Uncle Cygnus and Aunt Druella. And your cousins — you remember them, don’t you? Come, sit next to them — it’s so good of you to bring them, Cygnus, while they’re still on holiday.”

Sirius exchanges terse nods with his three cousins, who are all already situated at the end of the table opposite their parents. Bellatrix, whom Sirius has come to automatically associate with tortuous family banquets and other events events from a very early age, appears thoroughly offended at being grouped with her younger sisters and cousin rather than with the rest of the adults. She scowls at Sirius when he sat down across from her. “What happened to your face?”

Half-aware of his mother’s keen eavesdropping down the table and knowing exactly what will happen if he tells the truth, Sirius shrugs. “Lost control,” he says simply. It’s happened before; if he’s angry enough cabinets will fling themselves open unexpectedly, and they’ve caught him in the face more than once. Bursts of uncontrolled magic are familiar to all of them. “Wasn’t careful.”

Next to her older sister, Andromeda narrows her eyes, but says nothing when Sirius jerks his head a fraction of an inch in his father’s direction. All three of his cousins nod in gradual comprehension as they sneak furtive looks at their parents, who seem to be finding just as many moments to sneak in their own scrutinous glances. “Sorry,” Andromeda mutters, eyes wide and brows raised, mouth hidden behind her goblet. 

Sirius cracks a smile. He’s always liked Andromeda and her dry commentary at these dinners. She and Narcissa are less inclined to baby him the way Bellatrix does — a product of being patronised themselves, Sirius figures — and she also seems to be the most practical of his cousins, the rest of whom have apparently inherited the signature Black fanaticism for their family’s status. Down the table, Cygnus is boasting proudly about Bellatrix’s performance at school, and Sirius catches a slight eye-roll from Andromeda, who’s clearly irritated with the constant praises being sung of her sister. The opinions of a professor by the name of Slughorn, the alleged Head of House, don’t sound particularly compelling to Sirius, who has little reference to go off of, having never been to Hogwarts himself, but his mother and father are nodding with jealous enthusiasm, and he sighs inwardly. This is undoubtedly another standard that he’ll be expected to meet when he finally begins attending school.

“Of course, Andromeda has proven herself a favourite as well,” Cygnus continues. “Top of her class in Charms, from what Horace tells me, but she’s got a ways to go if she’s going to catch her sister. Isn’t that right, Andromeda?”

Andromeda forces a smile for the benefit of the adults, then catches Sirius’ eye from across the table and shakes her head almost imperceptibly. He chokes into his napkin to keep from coughing his food out on the table.

Walburga takes no notice. “Narcissa will be going this year, won’t she?”

“She will,” Cygnus says, obviously thrilled at the opportunity to bring his third daughter into the conversation. “We’re looking forward to seeing what she gets up to. It’ll do her good to be around some other pure-bloods her age — Druella and I don’t let her out much, not with all those Muggles on the street around these parts — but hopefully she’ll get a chance when she goes to school.” A rather ugly grin — it looks more like a snarl — splits his face. “And as I’m sure you know, Walburga, it’s never to early to start looking for some . . . _connections_.”

Sirius thinks he catches sight of Narcissa wrinkling her nose slightly; Andromeda also looks rather uncomfortable. He can’t blame either of them. He’s young, but not stupid, and the prospect of being assigned some other distant cousin to cosy up to and eventually marry isn’t particularly appealing. Only Bellatrix appears totally unfazed, and Sirius knows she can’t wait to be the subject of every pure-blood family’s dinner conversations once she gets married.

“What about Sirius?” Cygnus asks, raising his goblet in a kind of half-toast in Sirius’ general direction. “How long until this one gets his chance?”

“Oh, he’s much too young,” Walburga says dismissively. “He’s still has another five years to pull himself together.”

“You ought to keep an eye on him, then, get a head start on teaching him some things now. You don’t want to embarrass yourselves if he goes knowing nothing.”

“You’re _very_ right, Cygnus, and we all know he’ll need all the help he can get.”

“Have you thought about — ” Cygnus raises his eyebrows conspiratorially “ — the _next generation_ for the House of Black? This is not a decision to be taken lightly.”

Andromeda makes absolutely no attempt to conceal her disgust, stabbing a piece of meat with a kind of vengeful fury and hissing, “ _He’s not even six years old_!” Sirius feels his heart fill with both gratitude for the closest thing to an older sibling he’d ever get and apprehension for how Walburga might react, but apparently neither her parents nor Sirius’ own mother and father hear, for they continue discussing his future as if he isn’t sitting a few feet away. Bellatrix shoots him a poisonous look, like it’s his fault she’s not the Black heir; he ignores her and asks Narcissa to pass the potatoes.

As far as Sirius is concerned, if Bellatrix wants the suffocating attention and constant surveillance by his parents, she’s welcome to it. And just to emphasize his point to himself while he chews on his food, he imagines what she would look like with a black eye.


	2. i. a different world

_when you choose your friends, don’t be short-changed by choosing personality over character._

— w. somerset maugham

**_march 1971_ **

In another universe, in another life, Remus thinks his eleventh birthday might have been a much different affair. His father would’ve taken him to Diagon Alley — his mother might have even joined them, even though she hates magical travel — and they would’ve spent the day going through the shops — Remus could have spent hours in Flourish and Blotts — or they might have even gone to Hogsmeade, and his father would have bought him whatever he wanted from Honeydukes and pointed up at the massive castle on the hill, telling him all sorts of stories and facts about the legendary school. They would have run into some of his father’s colleagues from the Ministry, and Lyall would’ve presented his son proudly and told them it was his eleventh birthday and that he would soon be starting school at Hogwarts, and the Ministry officials would have smiled at him and wished him luck with his next school term. Then they would have returned home and had a lovely dinner, and it would have been altogether a perfect day.

Unfortunately, Remus still exists in the same universe into which he was born, and he wakes up early in the morning on his eleventh birthday with a headache rather like someone squeezing his temples together. The sun has just started rising, casting a dusky shadow on everything in his room, and Remus has to squint to make out the time on his wall clock: it’s barely six o’clock.

He falls back and buries his face in his pillows. He doesn’t want it to be like this. Surely he deserves a good day, _just one_ , on his birthday, surely he deserves a day off. He wants to wake up three hours later with his limbs splayed out and his sheets half-kicked off the bed, to open his eyes from a dream that ends at just the right moment, to feel awake and energetic and excited about it being his birthday. But no, the moon doesn’t care whose birthday it is, and he has to weather the headaches and nausea and mounting dread all the same.

He gives up on trying to fall asleep again by the time the sky lightens into a pale blue and drags himself out of bed, grudgingly resigning himself to the inevitable. It’s always easier to go downstairs and face his parents at the kitchen table than to hear his mother knocking on his door, asking for permission to enter as if he’s too volatile to be disturbed in the slightest.

“Happy birthday, dear,” his mother says, looking up from the stove when he enters the kitchen. The smell of frying bacon is both mouth-watering and nauseating, and Remus fights the desire to gag. “God, look at you. It’s like you’re taller already; soon you’ll be bigger than me. Come give your mum a hug.”

Remus wants to point out that one night every month he already _is_ bigger than she is, but he stays silent and wraps his arms around his mother’s waist. She holds him close to her with one arm, and for a moment Remus feels like he’s in that beautiful alternate universe where he doesn’t have to think about who or what he is, the universe where he’s just an eleven year-old boy and nothing else. His father greets him moments later by ruffling his hair, remarking that it’s getting a bit long and they should get it trimmed next week, and then hands him a package wrapped in brown paper. “For you,” he says.

Remus stares at the package in dumbfounded amazement for a few seconds. He’s been so annoyed at how his birthday doesn’t feel like a birthday at all that the idea of receiving any presents has barely even occurred to him. “Wow,” he breathes, taking the gift and running his fingers under the edge of the paper. “Thanks, Dad.”

“Open it,” Lyall says, settling into his seat at the kitchen table. He waves his hand at the kettle lazily to pour himself a cup of tea and watches his son with anticipation. 

Remus peels the tape off the back of the wrapping paper meticulously, hoping to save it. (The size of the gift suggests it’s a book, and the possibility of an extra large sheet of paper on which to take notes while he reads is an unexpected highlight.) He pulls off the wrapping to reveal a fresh copy of _The Standard Book of Spells_ , _Grade 1_ , and looks up at his father with a sort of perplexed wonder.

“Your mother and I thought — since sending you away for school isn’t — ” Lyall grimaces slightly, and Remus ignores the blunder; a series of ugly arguments last year suggested it would be easier if they all just avoided the topic of how he won’t be able to go to Hogwarts altogether “ — we thought it would be a good time for me to start teaching you. Most witches and wizards start formal education around your age, anyway. It might take a little longer — and you certainly won’t get the level of Potions or Arithmancy education I got, mind you — not that you _have_ to study Arithmancy, I suppose, if you don’t want to, though I’m not sure what I would teach you instead — but there’s no reason you _shouldn’t_ be able to learn . . . the basics, at least . . . ”

Remus beams up at his father, his headache becoming easier and easier to ignore. Lyall is still talking about how many subjects he’s not entirely solid on — “Of course, Portia Abbott is one of the most skilled witches of the century, she’s the reason I passed my Potions OWL when I wasn’t much older than you, Remus, I can only hope I do her class justice when I teach you — although I don’t think she’s teaching anymore, shame” — having failed to notice that his son has already been won over. Remus spends most of breakfast flipping through the book, focusing on the extensive table of contents and choosing various subjects to read about from the index at random. It’s a welcome distraction from breakfast and the uncomfortable knot in his stomach, but eventually he gives into guilt — his mother _did_ make an extra serving to celebrate, after all, just in case he actually ends up eating — so he forces himself to eat a convincing enough meal and then quickly excuses himself in case the nausea becomes too much.

He manages to get through lunch and lasts all the way through mid-afternoon before the headache strikes again with a vengeance. It’s bad enough, throbbing behind his eyes and bringing waves of dizziness when he moves too fast, that Remus finally shuts his book and trudges into the living room to ask his mother for headache medicine. She stares at him for a moment, concerned, but then nods wordlessly and disappears to retrieve her stash of Muggle medicines.

“It’s a bit early to be feeling so poorly, isn’t it?” Lyall remarks, glancing at the wall clock, around which an array of tiny planets and moons whizzes and spins. “Full moon’s not for another two days.”

Remus shrugs wordlessly and leaves the room. He doesn’t want to discuss the obvious hypothesis, which is that his transformations are only going to get worse as he gets older. Instead, he wanders through the back garden and lets the rest of his birthday pass in a hazy languor, counting down the minutes until he can go back into his room and sleep, even if he does have to trade his headache for a Russian roulette of disturbing dreams. He spends all of the next day holed up in his room, citing his poor appetite, which his mother thankfully deems an acceptable excuse, and then spends all of the day after that lying in bed looking up at the ceiling, worrying about what’s coming. 

It pains Remus immensely to think his parents have been right along: Hogwarts was struck off the list of things he was meant to experience from the second he was attacked six years ago. He tries to imagine what it would be like to go and have everyone point and stare at him, to have everyone treat him like an animal, not _just_ an animal but somehow _worse_ than an animal. It would be impossible to keep secret. His parents would be ridiculed. He would be ostracised, always an outsider, always on his own. If he’s not going to meet anyone else, he might as well learn at home with his father, to whom Remus won’t have any need to explain himself.

He stares at the copy of _The Standard Book of Spells_ his father gave him just a few days earlier, lying on his bedside table. He’s already read through it once at top speed, hungry for as much knowledge as he can comprehend, and then gone through it again, whispering each spell under his breath and trying to memorize the every single word on the page. The euphoria the gift brought has worn off, overshadowed by his realisation that there’s very little else that either he or his father can do to replace the education he would have otherwise received at Hogwarts. Even so, after two hours of counting pockmarks on the ceiling, Remus sighs, pulls the book onto his pillow, and cracks it open to study for the third time.

His mother knocks early in the afternoon but doesn’t enter, and Remus hears her gently setting down a plate outside his door in case he gets hungry. He picks at the food, even chancing a piece of toast, but doesn’t dare eat more in case he throws up. His parents seem to understand he simply wants to be left alone, because they don’t disturb him until the sun is already setting, and even then, his mother enters with an apologetic expression as if she thinks she might be nagging him. 

“I know,” Remus sighs, before his mother has even opened her mouth. Some mixture of worry and hurt flickers in her eyes and Remus winces, wondering if the words sounded too harsh. He never means it like that, all sharp and angry around the edges. It’s just _hard_ to act like he doesn’t mind when he really _does_ , when it’s all he really _can_ mind about. “Thanks for the toast earlier.”

Hope smiles a sort of unhappy half-smile, and Remus feels a pang of sadness at the way she looks at him. He wants so badly to be wrapped in her arms and to spend evenings curled up on the couch between his parents watching television, he wants to run down the stairs two at a time and be scolded for tracking mud in from the garden, he wants her to look at him like she can’t believe she’s given birth to and raised someone like him — but that can never happen, because every time he catches her watching him, her eyes are full of rueful disappointment — whether it’s about what he is or what he could’ve been, Remus doesn’t know. For a second, his arms twitch with the urge to hug her. He wants her to know how much he loves being her son and how glad he is that Lyall puts Silencing Charms on him so that she can’t hear him screaming and howling at night. But his skin is already crawling and he’s starting to feel a familiar feverish prickling on his face, so he keeps his arms hanging awkwardly at his side and says, “I’ll be okay, Mum.”

**//**

**_august 1971_ **

It takes Remus nearly a whole week to recover from the full moon in August. He sleeps through the first day and most of the second, and by the time he feels awake enough to bother eating, he’s so hungry and eats so much that his parents exchange glances and stare at him with something just short of flat-out alarm. Then his shrunken stomach protests, and he spends another day or so feeling queasy and retching into the toilet. It’s several days later by the time his appetite balances itself out and he feels well enough to eat breakfast again.

Remus can feel his father’s eyes on him as he enters the kitchen, watching as he sits down at the table. “Morning,” he mumbles warily. He hates the first meal back with his parents every month. It’s always uncomfortably silent and his parents usually spend most of it gauging his mood and trying to tactfully ask how he’s feeling without actually saying the words _how are you feeling_. 

“You’ve got mail,” Lyall says, lowering his copy of _The Daily Prophet_ a few inches to view him clearly. 

Remus glances up from his beans, shocked to find not only his father’s eyes fixed upon him, but his mother’s as well. “It was delivered yesterday,” Hope says, wringing a dishtowel nervously between her hands, “but we — well, I thought we should wait until you felt better to let you read it.”

After another moment of dumbstruck silence, Remus drops his fork with a clatter and surveys the table in front of him, where, indeed, a letter addressed to him is propped up against the butter dish. He picks up the envelope, weighing it curiously in his hands; his parents are still staring at him with anticipation. He isn’t sure he’s ever seen his mother look at him the way she’s looking now, giddy and unable to contain her smile. “Go on,” she says, offering him the butter knife by its handle. “Open it.”

Remus flips over the envelope, eyes widening when he sees the bright red seal on the other side, the signature flowery _H_ stamped into the little circle of wax. The smile that has started tugging on the corners of his mouth falters. He looks up at his parents again. “But I can’t go,” he says. “Why would they send me a letter if I couldn’t go? Don’t they know?”

“Believe me, this isn’t the first letter they’ve sent,” Lyall mutters from behind his newspaper shield, and Hope swats his arm with a reproachful expression. Remus shoots him a sharp sideways glance. So not only has Hogwarts sent him a letter — this letter — but they’ve sent _others_ before this? He wants to ask what his father has done with them, whether his parents are keeping a collection of them in their bedroom. What’s so different about this one? Perhaps Lyall is just letting him open this one for the sake of getting them to stop.

“Go on, Remus,” Hope repeats, pushing the knife into his hand.

Remus pries the seal off neatly with the blade of the knife and shuffles the thick cardstock out of the envelope. He wonders if he’s done something wrong and this is a form of cruel torture, some sort of punishment he’s earned; he can’t think of anything worse than another reminder of what he’s missing out on. “It’s a Hogwarts letter,” he says quietly as he unfolds the letter, the confirmation more for his parents’ benefit than his own. He can feel a lump forming at the base of his throat; the last line before the tidy signature of a _Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress_ catches his eye.

 _Term begins 1 September_ , it says. _We await your owl by no later than 31 July._ Then, in a slightly larger script, as though it was an afterthought, someone’s added _Please confirm attendance at your earliest convenience._

Hands shaking, Remus sets the paper down next to his plate and picks up his fork again. “It’s the middle of August,” he says, a little unnecessarily. “What are they doing, sending this to me now?”

“Because,” Lyall says, folding up the _Prophet_ with a heavy sigh, “as I said, this isn’t the first letter they’ve sent. They send these in July.” Remus knows that much — when he was younger, before that terrible February night, he’d beg his father constantly to recount the story of his own Hogwarts letter, imagining what it would be like to receive his own. The absence of a letter in July had been bitterly disappointing, but it’s not as if Remus hadn’t been expecting it — he assumed they somehow knew what he was and didn’t want him — and so he distracted himself with another read-through of _The Standard Book of Spells_ , which Lyall promised to start working through in September. “I wrote them after the first one to say you wouldn’t be attending.”

“He doesn’t want to hear about _that_ ,” Remus’ mother chides. “Tell him about Albus Dumbledore, Lyall.”

Lyall waves his hand dismissively. “I’m getting there.” He takes a long, slow sip of coffee, then looks back at Remus. “A few days ago, I was visited at work by a certain Professor Dumbledore of a _certain_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He told me he’d been most disappointed to receive word that I would be schooling you myself — he also frankly expressed some doubts about my ability to teach you, which I suppose is acceptable criticism if it comes from him — you’ll know him as the Headmaster, Remus, but _I_ knew him as a Transfiguration professor when I was at school — ” Hope taps the back of her husband’s hand lightly, urging him to continue “ — and, well, the long and the short of it is that Dumbledore had come to personally ask me for permission to allow you to study at Hogwarts.”

Remus stops chewing in order to gape at his father. The Headmaster, asking for him to attend Hogwarts? “What did you say?” he presses, almost afraid of the answer. 

“No,” says Lyall, “at _first_. But apparently Dumbledore has been keeping watch on — ” he shifts a little uncomfortably in his seat and lowers his voice, as if worried someone is listening in “ — Fenrir Greyback, and werewolves in general. He’s of the mind that we stand to lose much more by treating them the way we do.” Remus notes a wave of bitter reminiscence in his father’s eyes, but ignores it; he’ll only hear that he’s _too young to understand right now_ if he asks. “He’s been keeping an eye on your case, specifically, for a while now.”

Remus toys with the corner of the letter. He’s not sure how to feel about someone, Headmaster of Hogwarts or not, _keeping an eye_ on him. He’s not a specimen, and the talk of the fabled Fenrir Greyback, of whom his parents decidedly prefer _not_ to discuss, is making him even less sure about where exactly this story is going. “So I’m not going,” he says, vigorously buttering a slice of toast.

“No, this is what I’m trying to tell you,” Lyall says. A smile spreads slowly over his face while he waits for Remus to comprehend. “I wrote to Albus Dumbledore to say you wouldn’t be attending. I didn’t mention why. _He_ came to _me_ to say that, having known about — well, _this_ — he very much wanted you to be able to attend. They can make arrangements, I’m told, and according to him, Poppy Pomfrey’s just been appointed matron. She was my year, Remus, and she’s a born healer, absolutely brilliant with Potions and Charms and what-have-you.”

Remus thinks he understands, but he doesn’t allow himself to believe it until his mother speaks up. “Your father and I have talked it over,” she says, pouring him a cup of tea, “and we think — of course, only if _you_ still want to — we think it might be worth a try for you to go.”

“And you _should_ still want to,” Lyall adds drily. “I made the mistake of taking Ancient Runes when I was at school, and you wouldn’t want me teaching you _that_ here.”

His parents are beaming when he looks up at them, their faces shining with this kind of light that warms his heart and lets him know so clearly how much they love him, how happy they are for him, how excited they are for him to have this second chance. From what his father describes of his conversation with Albus Dumbledore, Remus knows that things will always be a bit different for him, but he thinks of buying books at Flourish and Blotts and meeting other children who can do magic and seeing that beautiful, magnificent castle, and everything else is wiped from his mind as he blinks back tears and flings himself into his father’s arms.

**//**

**_september 1971_ **

Sirius arrives on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters and promptly doubles over with his hands on his knees, completely out of breath. He knows Regulus gets a good laugh out of it, but he’s never found Side-Along Apparition enjoyable in the least, and he thinks he’d almost rather have walked.

“Stand up straight,” his mother says, slapping his back. She combs a wisp of hair over her ear, completely unfazed. “You’re an embarrassment.”

Sirius pulls a face, savouring a rare opportunity to get away with some poor behaviour. He wouldn’t risk it if his father was here, but since Orion couldn’t be arsed to see him off — King’s Cross, with its bustling Muggle population, is too beneath him, apparently — Sirius thinks he can risk a little more attitude. Walburga hates his snark, but she also hates making a scene, and absolutely nothing can be allowed to tarnish the reputation of the House of Black. 

“Oh, good, your cousins are here,” she says, with a sigh of relief. “Go on, then. Behave yourself. I don’t want any owls from Slughorn saying you’ve done something stupid.” And just like that, she turns on the spot and disappears into thin air with a light _pop_.

Sirius is glad to be free of his mother’s oppressive presence at last, but he’s still pissed at being abandoned on the platform so carelessly. He looks where his mother pointed right before Disapparating and spots his cousins, tall and regal, commanding a wide berth around them. Like his own parents, neither Uncle Cygnus nor Aunt Druella have deigned to come, apparently, because Bellatrix is the only one of age visible, and she’s giving Narcissa and Andromeda the customary last lecture before they board the train, presumably about how they need to behave themselves. Sirius isn’t sure why she’s wasting her breath; Bellatrix is ironically the only one of the three who hasn’t ever been named a Prefect. He wanders over to them, trunk in tow, and coughs loudly in the middle of Andromeda’s complaining to announce his presence.

“I _know_ , Bella,” she’s saying, “now would you shut up and let us get on — oh! Sirius, good, you’re here. Dad said your mum would be bringing you.”

“Yeah,” Sirius says, “she’s already left, if you were hoping to catch her.”

Bellatrix doesn’t seem to mind. “Well, now that you’re here, I can give _you_ some reminders too. Everyone’s going to have their eyes on you, Sirius, you know that, and you’d do well to remember it — ”

“I think Cissa and I can keep him on the straight and narrow well enough, thanks,” Andromeda interrupts, putting a hand on Sirius’ shoulder. “We’ll get on the train now, before we miss it.”

Bellatrix looks rather annoyed, but she doesn’t continue with her lecture, and Sirius makes a mental note to thank Andromeda later for saving him from another sermon about _how important_ he is. “Well, you should be off, then,” she says finally. “See you at the holidays, Cissy.” She kisses Narcissa, who just stands there placidly, looking like she might freeze someone to death with her stare, on each cheek, and then pulls Andromeda close. 

“Mind you watch how much time you’re spending with that Tonks boy,” she says, in a tense voice that reminds Sirius of when his mother offers him a choice that isn’t really a choice at all. “There are _rumours_ , you know. Mother and Father don’t like hearing that you’ve been keeping such company, and I don’t, either.”

“Well, thanks for your opinion,” Andromeda says coldly, twisting her arm out of her older sister’s grip, “but I’ll keep the company of whoever I like. Come on, Cissa, train’s about to leave. I’ll help you with your trunk, Sirius.”

Once in the train, Sirius desperately wants to ask what that whole exchange was about, but Narcissa tosses her sheet of white hair over her shoulder and announces that she and Andromeda need to report to the Prefects’ carriage, but that he can find them later if he needs to, just ask anyone for the Slytherin Prefects. So he stands dumbly in the train corridor for half a second, long enough to see Bellatrix frown at him through the window before Disapparating, and he decides he’s not about to wait for his cousins to baby him and present him to the rest of the Slytherins before they’ve even gotten to school. The thought of being paraded about as the Black heir is nauseating. He hasn’t forgotten — Merlin, his mother won’t let him — the way Cygnus talked about arranging his marriage. 

He finds a carriage at the very end of the train that’s empty except for a sad-looking girl — another first-year, he assumes, judging by her size and demeanour and the way she stares out the window, already missing home even though the train has yet to leave the station — so he sticks his head in. “Hi,” he says, and she jerks a bit out of her reverie. “Sorry. Anyone else sitting in here? It’s only, I don’t want to go tagging along with my cousins.”

She nods in silent assent and Sirius takes the seat in the corner next to her, turning until his back’s pressed up against the wall. He’s shocked to see that there’s actually a second person, a thin, washed-out looking boy, settled in the corner opposite him. He’s wearing an oversized jumper even though it’s still quite warm out and his shoulders are pulled in as if he’s trying to fold himself away to keep people from noticing him, but he returns Sirius’ grin with a tiny smile that just barely touches his eyes. Sirius turns his attention to the girl, who’s gone back to staring out the window, about to ask her name, when the compartment door is thrown open and a pair of boys announce their presence.

“Hello, you lot,” says the taller one, pushing a tuft of unruly hair out of his eyes, and Sirius takes an immediate liking to his down-to-earth address. “Mind if we join?”

The girl gives the new arrivals a once-over, but doesn’t say anything — she goes back pressing her face against the window, looking for someone on the platform, maybe — and the boy in the corner pulls his feet closer to himself to make more room, so Sirius waves the pair into the compartment.

“Thanks,” the tall one says. “This is Peter. I’m James.”

Peter nods at everyone and settles in the seat next to him; James throws himself down across from Sirius, next to the quiet boy, who identifies himself as Remus, and the door opens yet _again_ to reveal a thin, awkward boy with a distinctively hooked nose, who enters without asking and stands in front of the window for a moment before sitting down. The girl looks over and then away very quickly.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” she says in a very small voice. Neither she nor her apparent conversation partner appear to care that they’re surrounded by four other people. 

“Why not?”

“Tuney hates me because we saw that letter from Dumbledore.”

Always one to enjoy a bit of what sounds like family drama, Sirius glances around the compartment to see if anyone else is picking up on this. James catches his eye and snickers. 

“So what?” the boy asks.

“So she’s my _sister_!” the girl snaps, her voice shaking. 

“She’s only a — !” Sirius is almost certain the next word is about to be _Muggle_ , or maybe _Mudblood_ ; it’s the kind of thing he hears from his parents and Bellatrix all the time. Remus’ head snaps up, too, at the sound of the word on the tip of the boy’s tongue. The boy seems to notice, because he clears his throat uneasily and presses on. “But _we’re_ going! This is it! We’re off to Hogwarts!” He watches as the girl wipes her eyes and nods once, then adds, “You’d better be in Slytherin.”

“ _Slytherin_?” James repeats. “Who wants to be in Slytherin? I think I’d leave, wouldn’t you?”

It takes Sirius a moment to realize James is talking to him, and suddenly he feels incredibly annoyed. He’s not a fan of his family’s constant grooming or the attention they shower on him for being the _Black family heir_ and all that, but he thinks about Narcissa’s quiet, minute facial expressions that speak volumes at family dinners, and about the way Andromeda stands up for him when their parents start discussing who and how and when he’ll marry. Like it or not, at the end of the day, he’s got the House of Black running through his veins. “My whole family have been in Slytherin,” he says, frowning a little. 

“Blimey,” says James, though he looks unfazed, and he smiles crookedly. “And I thought you seemed all right.”

Sirius grins. There's something to be said for somebody who's so forthright instead of being caught up with all the deluded pure-blood airs and graces. It’s a welcome change from his home. “Maybe I’ll break the tradition. Where are you heading, if you’ve got the choice?”

James brandishes an invisible sword and says Gryffindor, which elicits a snort from the mystery boy in the corner. Sirius eyes him with disdain. _No one asked you to join this compartment_ , he thinks, although he realizes that he and James have essentially taken over what was probably a private conversation. James seems to think the same, because he scowls and turns to the boy. “Got a problem with that?”

“No,” the boy says, his lip curling in way that suggests he very much _does_ have a problem with it, “if you’d rather be brawny than brainy — ” 

_Plenty of stupid people end up in Slytherin_ , Sirius retorts, thinking of Bellatrix, who undoubtedly only drew praise from people like Horace Slughorn because she comes from a noteworthy family. “Well, where are you hoping to go?” he shoots back. “Seeing as you’re neither?”

James cackles. Even Peter and Remus, who’ve watched the entire exchange in total silence, hanging back on the sidelines, crack smiles. The boy turns white at Sirius’ words, and Sirius feels bad for a moment, remembering that they’ll probably have to share a dormitory, but he shakes it off. The girl, too, presses her lips together reprovingly and stands up, offering her hand out, whatever row they were having earlier apparently forgotten. “Come on, Severus,” she says, flipping her red hair over her shoulder. Sirius cringes a bit at the name, which screams old-fashioned pure-blood pride. “Let’s find another compartment.”

James keeps laughing until they’ve left the compartment, and then he leans forward and sticks his hand out. “Good riddance,” he says. “I didn’t catch your name before.”

Sirius takes James’ proffered hands and grips it tightly, squeezing once before letting go. He wonders what his parents would say; handshakes are a tradition for low-class Muggles. Blacks don’t shake hands when people are introduced to them. “Sirius Black.” He includes his last name like he’s always been taught to do, an assertion of who he is and where he comes from, and is a little surprised to see James react the way he does.

“Black?” he echoes. “From the House of Black?” Sirius nods. James whistles. “Blimey, didn’t mean to mouth off Slytherin like that in front of you, Your Honour.”

“Oh, don’t you start,” Sirius says, his liking for this boy deepening even more. “It’s bad enough getting that treatment at home.”

“What’s the House of Black?” Peter asks.

“Pure-blood family,” says James. “One of the purest, according to my dad.”

Peter mutters a tiny _oh_ and flushes with embarrassment. Sirius thinks about the family tree back home, the way the lines cross over each other and how his parents are technically also his cousins, and rolls his eyes. “It’s a lot more trouble than it’s worth, if you ask me. Believe me, it’s a relief I’ve finally met someone who hasn’t spent the entire conversation shoving it down my throat. _Representing the family_ this, _carrying on the Black line_ that.” He shakes his head. “What about you, then? Not one of us, surely, I don’t recognize you from enough dinners.” 

“Nah, I am. Just not like your bunch,” says James. “Sorry, no disrespect to your family, but I couldn’t care less how _pure_ my family is. And — well, I’ve already told you I’m not planning on being in Slytherin.”

“Slytherin wouldn’t take me even if I asked,” Remus agrees, and Sirius is shocked to hear him speak for the first time. “My mum’s a Muggle.”

“Me too,” Peter chimes in. “Muggle-born.”

“Well, thank Merlin for that,” James says. “My dad tells me the worst things about some of those families. You ever heard of the Malfoys?”

Sirius is about to say yes, he has, because over the summer his parents had dragged him and Regulus to a number of dinners at his uncle and aunt’s house — dinners that had also been attended by a number of Malfoys, including their eminent heir, Lucius — and he’s old enough to put two and two together. But before he’s opened his mouth, the door slides open and Andromeda leans in.

“There you are,” she says, spotting Sirius. “I left the Prefects’ meeting early to come find you. Heard you talking about the Malfoys.”

“That was me,” James says, oblivious to the warning look Sirius gives him. 

Andromeda seems to only just comprehend the presence of the three other boys in the cabin. “Oh.” Sirius squirms a little — he’s only _just_ managed to laugh off his status as a Black heir, and here’s his Slytherin Prefect cousin, talking to him and making it obvious who he is again _._ Andromeda draws back, checking the hall, and leans in again. “Well, you didn’t hear it from me, but Lucius Malfoy makes me sick. Can’t believe I still have to do Prefect duty with him this year, that absolute wanker.”

James looks thrilled to be getting such an in to so much wizarding family gossip, and even Peter and Remus look mildly amused, even though Sirius is fairly certain they’ve got no real idea what’s going on. “Don’t let your mum hear you saying that,” Sirius says.

“Ugh.” Andromeda wrinkles her nose in that same characteristic way that both her sisters do, and Sirius fights the urge to laugh. “Cissa’s all over him, and she can have him, as far as I’m concerned. That ought to make Mum and Dad happy. Anyway, just thought I’d come look for you in case you needed someone to sit with, but it looks like you’re settling in fine. I’ll see you at supper, then; we’ll save you a seat. I’m off to find Ted.” And she wanders off, the compartment door sliding shut behind her. 

“My cousin,” Sirius says, when the rest of the group looks at him for an explanation.

“Your cousin’s a Slytherin Prefect?” Peter whispers, each word more awe-struck than the last, like he can’t believe how unfair it is that Sirius has actually gathered up a troupe of friends before even setting foot on the grounds at Hogwarts.

Sirius snorts at this, mostly because he has difficulty imagining Andromeda and Narcissa or any of the other pure-blood students he’s met before as his _friends_ , when they’re more like family members he barely tolerates — Andromeda, who he might actually look forward to seeing at dinners, being the rare exception. “You think that’s bad, I’ve got two of them. Andromeda’s the sixth year Prefect. Narcissa just made fifth year. My Uncle Cygnus wouldn’t shut up about it.”

“Seems like everyone’s decided which House _you’re_ going to be in, if they’re saving you seats like that,” James says. “Bad luck, honestly. Takes the anticipation out of the whole process. My dad says that’s half the fun, really, wondering where you’ll end up — no one’s ever really sure, are they?”

“My dad told me it tends to reflect your wizarding parents, if you’ve got any,” Remus says. “You know, like you’ve got a better chance of being in a House if one or both of your parents was in the same. It’s got an incredible memory, he says.”

“Yeah, s’pose so. So where does that land you?”

“Ravenclaw, probably,” Remus guesses, and Sirius is reminded that whatever happens on this train, he probably won’t end up talking to these boys much, not when they’ve yet to be Sorted. It’s a shame, because he likes how James is quick to laugh and how Peter is easily amazed by the tiniest things, and even though he’s quiet, Remus is clearly very happy to be in their company. The train ride passes faster than Sirius expected — time crawls at an infuriatingly slow pace at home, even when he’s got Regulus to talk to — and after several hours of merrily developing conversation — which mostly involves Remus describing a variety of Muggle contraptions for the benefit of everyone else — they’re interrupted again.

Narcissa has already changed into her robes, her green and silver tie neatly knotted and perfectly dimpled; her new Prefect badge sits pinned below her shoulder. “Sirius,” she says by way of greeting, narrowing her eyes at the rest of the party. 

Sirius looks up from the game of Exploding Snap that he’s been sharing with James and Peter (Remus, citing the fact that he’s never actually played Exploding Snap before, is dividing his attention between their game and _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1_ ) and balks at the sight of Lucius Malfoy standing behind his cousin. His friends are about to think the only people he knows are Slytherin Prefects. “Narcissa.”

“I was wondering if you’ve seen Andromeda.”

“Not since several hours ago. Why? Does it have to do with — _ow_!” Narcissa grabs him by his wrist and yanks him out of the compartment into the corridor, slamming the door and casting another surreptitious glance over her shoulder. 

“Sorry,” she says, though she doesn’t sound very sorry. “I don’t want that lot hearing our conversation.”

This rubs Sirius the wrong way — mostly because his wrist is now sore from his cousin’s iron grip — and he scowls. “ _That lot_ are my friends.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Lucius Malfoy says, “you haven’t been Sorted yet. Your mother would rather you keep the company of Slytherins.” There’s a sort of sneer in his eyes. “ _Only_ Slytherins.”

“I didn’t _ask_ for your input, Malfoy,” Sirius snaps, even though he knows Lucius is right, that he has to stop thinking about James and Peter and Remus as his friends.

“Sirius!” Narcissa glares at him. Severe as her eyes are, they mean very little to him at this point; if this were Bellatrix, he might be a little nervous, but Narcissa’s never been one to be particularly aggressive. “Can we _please_ just — look, Andromeda’s been spending an awful lot of time with that Ted Tonks, and word gets around, you know, and I _don’t_ want her having a row with either Mother or Father at Christmas.”

“It’s for her own good,” Lucius chimes in.

“I think you can leave your opinions on what’s good for Andromeda to me and Narcissa,” Sirius says coldly. Future in-law or not, Lucius has far too high an opinion of himself for someone who’s barely gotten his foot in the door with the House of Black. Sirius thinks about the face Andromeda made at the mention of his name and wonders if Lucius knows how the Blacks talk about him when they’re within the confines of their own homes; he’s pleasantly surprised when Lucius screws up his pale face and stomps off in the direction he came from, leaving Narcissa behind.

“Sirius,” she chides again, “ _please_.”

“Well, I’m right,” Sirius says. “Your mum and dad might be planning on marrying you off to him, but we both know he’s marrying up. He’d do well to remember it.” He takes a deep breath and continues ranting; it feels good to let it out, away from the omnipresent eyes and ears of his mother. “‘It’s for her own good’ — honestly, I know he’s older and I should respect him, Narcissa, you know my mum would never let me forget it, but it’s insulting. It’s none of his business, what goes on in our family. You don’t think _we_ know Andromeda better than him?”

Narcissa frowns, but she doesn’t disagree. “Well, anyway,” she continues, “Andromeda got an owl this summer from Ted Tonks, and Father burned the letter on sight. He’s burned every letter from him since. I’m worried, Sirius, you know what our parents are like.”

Sirius sighs. He doesn’t really see the problem, even if this Tonks _is_ a measly Hufflepuff getting a little too cosy with a Black daughter. Andromeda’s smart, and she knows she can’t actually be with a Muggle-born. “It’ll pass,” he says, “isn’t that what they always say? She’ll end up with that — oh, what’s his name, he was at the last dinner we had at the Malfoys — that Avery boy, or someone, and everyone will be happy.”

“Except Andromeda,” Narcissa points out. “She won’t be happy unless she gets her way.”

Sirius rolls his eyes. He can’t be bothered to help with this nonexistent crisis — he’s so sick of playing the role of the future Black patriarch, treating everyone like pawns in this weird rat race — and for _what_ , honestly — so he wrenches his wrist out of Narcissa’s grip and opens the door to the compartment again. His friends look up at him expectantly. “She’ll be fine,” he says to his cousin. “She doesn’t want a row with the family any more than the two of us.”

Narcissa’s eyes narrow again in some mixture of skepticism and despair as about half the Exploding Snap deck spontaneously combusts — much to the raucous delight of James and Peter — but she sighs and lets Sirius sit back down. “I expect you’re right. You’d better get changed; we’ll be arriving soon,” she says, and whirls off to find Lucius, her hair streaming behind her.

There’s a stunned silence and an exchange of stares that suggest the compartment doors are not nearly as sound-proof as Narcissa thinks. Finally, James shuffles the smoking deck of cards together, the game forgotten. “Mate, don’t take this the wrong way,” he says, the only one of them to speak, “but your family have got some serious problems. I’d hate to be a part of it.”

Sirius thinks of stupid Lucius Malfoy and his stupid, proud face. “No offense taken,” he says, grinning. “Join the club.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yikes ok i think i mentioned this already in the a/n at the head but i'm several chapters out (mostly so that when i become a lil bitch who never wants to update during the semester i'll still have stuff to post) and like i swear i start remembering how to write later on pls bear w me lol i just can't write openings for shit oops
> 
> if ur so inclined, my tumblr is [here](https://broadchurchs.tumblr.com/). if u, too, want to scream for 20 years when u think about how perfect remus lupin was, feel free to msg me there lol. ty for reading, much love, stay safe -ivy x


	3. ii. what-ifs

_everyone seemed to say it was so great,  
_ _but did i miss out, was it a huge mistake?_

— mxmtoon, _prom dress_

Remus thinks he’s about to piss himself when he walks into the Great Hall.

When he was seven, his parents took him on a rare holiday. They’d stopped in Winchester and gone into the cathedral, and Remus still remembers the breathless delight that overtook him when he threw his head back to look up at the high ceilings, the stone pillars, the incredible architecture. The sheer expanse between himself and the ceiling made his stomach flip; it felt so impossible to fathom that such a structure could be built without magic. Since that trip, Remus had harbour a secret conviction that if lessons with his dad didn’t work out and magic wasn’t meant for him, he wouldn’t mind being an architect. 

The Great Hall makes him feel the same way, totally awestruck, except he can’t quite see how far up the ceilings were because of the shifting clouds in the night sky that swirls above them, and the stone walls seem to stretch on and on forever into oblivion. He tries to hide his amazement — he doesn’t want to look over-eager — but even so, it’s hard not to follow the floating candles with his eyes as they bob through the air and settle into their respective chandeliers, and he nearly walks into Sirius Black when the line of first-years he’s in comes to a stop. Sirius doesn’t seem to mind — he’s looking off in the direction of the Slytherin table on the far side — and Remus turns his attention back to the stunning architecture. He’s so absorbed in the ancient beauty of it all that he misses the entire speech from the Sorting Hat, along with the first few sortings, and only just tunes back in when he hears the stern-faced witch calling Sirius’ name.

Remus watches as Sirius strides up to the stool amid excited murmuring from the Slytherin table and plops down, Hat on his head. He feels a slight pang of disappointment. He hadn’t known what to think when a moody sort of boy had stuck his head into his compartment, asking to sit, but now that he’s spent the whole train ride with him and James and Peter, Remus finds himself thinking that they’re not a bad sort, even if Sirius _is_ from one of the most famous pure-blood families. Even his father has mentioned the Blacks once or twice at home — though always with a hint of displeasure in his voice — and Remus thinks it’s a shame that such a friendly person like Sirius should have no say in where and with whom he ends up, not when he talks about his family so despairingly.

The rip near the brim of the Hat opens nearly the second it touches Sirius’ head, but then it closes quickly for a fraction of a second as if catching itself. The brooding expression on Sirius’ face is back. 

The Hat hesitates again, and then loudly proclaims, “ _Gryffindor_!”

There’s a roar of approval from the Gryffindor table, mixed with a collective hiss from Slytherin. Remus spots Sirius’ Prefect cousins sitting next to each other, the white-haired one covering her hands with her mouth in total disbelief. Even some of the professors, including the stern-faced one holding the roll of parchment with their names, are thoroughly nonplussed. Remus thinks he recognizes Albus Dumbledore, seated at the center of the staff table, raising his eyebrows.

Sirius, however, looks rather amused, if a bit taken aback, and swaggers off to the Gryffindor table. Remus studies him from a distance. He wonders how the Hat works, how it makes its decision. What does it see? What does it know? A sudden wave of panic seizes him — what if it reveals his secret to the entire Hall? He’s managed to keep the worry at bay so far, but if the Hat can apparently pry deeply into the soul of a boy from a family as pure-blooded as they come, _surely_ it’ll be able to see the ugly truth about a werewolf.

He manages to lose himself in his thoughts again, barely taking notice when the redhead from the train earlier in the day is called — Lily, or something — and he even misses his name being called, until it’s called again. Someone — Peter — pokes him sharply in the back with a stubby little finger. “That’s you,” he whispers.

Remus clears his throat and approaches the stool. The professor’s face softens for a moment into what he thinks is an encouraging smile before dropping the Hat on his head.

“ _Aha_ ,” the Hat croons, “another half-blood. Interesting. Your mother’s a Muggle, isn’t she?”

For another desperately panicked moment, Remus wonders if the whole school can hear, but then he remembers its silence when it was deciding what to do with Sirius Black. _Yes_ , Remus thinks, closing his eyes and imagining his mother, wishing she was here to see him. _Yeah, my mum’s a Muggle_.

“I remember your father,” says the Hat knowledgeably, “a Ravenclaw if I’ve ever seen one. You come from a long line of them.”

 _That’s him_ , Remus agrees, though he wonders how exactly the Hat recognizes his family.

“But there’s something else here, isn’t there?”

Remus can feel sweat beading on his neck. _Not here_ , he begs. _It’s a_ _secret_ , _no one knows_ , _no one will_ ever _know. I’m here because Dumbledore said I could come._

“Well, don’t get your wand in a knot. Your secret’s safe with me, you know, I’ve seen into the mind of loads of witches and wizards before you.” The Hat is silent in Remus’ mind for a moment. “I could put you in Ravenclaw, like your father,” it continues, “but you don’t need to be _there_ to succeed. You can always do with more brains about you, of course, but . . . .” Remus starts to fret again — how long exactly is this going to take? — but the Hat continues quickly. “I know what you need,” it says after half of second of thoughtful humming. “And to get there, I think you’ll do very well in — _Gryffindor_!”

The Hat calls the last word out loud; its voice rings in the Hall for a couple of seconds and is drowned out by the thunderous applause and whooping from the Gryffindor table. Sirius waves him over and Remus hurries towards him, grateful for the empty space that he offers up. 

“You all right?” Sirius asks, still applauding. “Looked a bit pale up there. What’d the Hat ask you?”

“Just talked about my dad,” Remus mumbles, flushing. “Thought about putting me in — ”

“Ravenclaw, right,” Sirius finishes. “Bit of luck, then! I didn’t think any of us from the train would end up in the same House, the way you were all talking about your families.”

Remus feels a rush of joy. He didn’t think it would be this easy, befriending someone — and certainly not someone like Sirius, who’s confident and seems to have the whole world wrapped around his finger. They turn their attention to Peter, who’s just been called up and disappears beneath the wide brim of the Sorting Hat. He worries his lip between his teeth and grips the side of the stool so hard Remus can see his knuckles turning white, and the Hall falls into a thick silence that drags on and on.

“What’s going on?” Remus murmurs, eyes still fixed on Peter’s apprehensive figure. 

Sirius frowns. “Not sure.”

One of the Gryffindor Prefects, seated diagonally across from them, checks his watch and whistles. “Been almost five minutes now,” he says in a low voice. “’S a Hatstall, I think. I’ve never seen one in my whole time here.”

There’s some tittering from a couple groups around the Hall as the Hat continues screwing up its cloth face. Remus wonders what conversation Peter’s having with the Hat — his face keeps twisting here and there and he looks downright distressed at one point — and even some of the professors are visibly holding their breaths, when suddenly the Hat declares Peter a Gryffindor and the Hall erupts into applause. Peter scuttles over to where Remus and Sirius are sitting and slides into the bench across from them, looking like he wants to disappear. 

“The Hat said Slytherin at first,” he says in hushed tones. “Why?”

Sirius shrugs. “Beats me. Maybe it got us mixed up. You were up there for a long time.”

The Gryffindor table erupts into cheers again as James Potter is sorted into their House, and James appears in front of them, grinning. “Look at us,” he says, “all Gryffindors. Who would’ve thought? I mean, blimey, Sirius, your family’s going to have a right cow.”

Sirius snickers. “Yeah, did you see Narcissa? Looked like she’d seen a dead body. Ten Galleons says she sells me out to my parents after dinner.”

“She wouldn’t,” Remus says, horrified. He isn’t sure how close most people are with their cousins, but Sirius seems to have a sibling-like relationship with his, and Remus can’t imagine turning on his siblings if he ever had any. “I mean, your parents will be properly disappointed, won’t they?”

Sirius shrugs again. “Not worth worrying about,” he says airily. 

By the end of dinner, Remus decides he’s done well for himself, to have met three people like James and Peter and Sirius. He makes a mental list of things to write to his parents about: being sorted into Gryffindor, the private conversation that the Sorting Hat witch — who identifies herself as Professor McGonagall — pulls him aside to have before he heads upstairs to the dormitories, his friends — though he isn’t sure if he can quite use that word to describe them yet. He likes Sirius, the breezy way he laughs everything off, unbothered by his cousins’ grave voices and pinched faces, like he hasn’t a care in the world.

Remus thinks again of the way Sirius beamed when he was sorted into Gryffindor and the way he laughed at the sight of his cousin’s shocked face, and then thinks about his own conversation with Professors McGonagall and Dumbledore and the school matron. _Not worth worrying about_ , Sirius said. Remus sighs. He wonders what it’s like not to worry.

**//**

Sirius is accosted by his cousins the second he leaves the Great Hall. Professor McGonagall swoops upon them, and for a moment, he thinks he’s saved, but she actually only wants a word with Remus, whose parents have apparently sent him something or other, so Sirius watches as his new friends are led off in different directions — Remus trailing behind McGonagall, James and Peter behind a Prefect who introduces himself to everyone as Frank — and braces himself for the inevitable. Narcissa’s grip on his wrist is vice-like, tighter than when she dragged him after her in the train, and her eyes are huge: wide, cold, _scared_. Sirius wonders if he was wrong, if Narcissa won’t rat him out to his parents because she’s just as scared of what they’ll say as he is. He doesn’t show it — or at least he _hopes_ no one can tell — but he’s wracked by fear. No doubt his mother will blame him for the Sorting. Maybe his father will come to pull him out of school.

“What the _fuck_?” Andromeda says, once Sirius has been corralled into a corner by a staircase and stands, looking around uncomfortably, at least a head shorter than both his cousins. 

Narcissa shoots her sister a withering glance. “Watch yourself, will you?” She turns to Sirius and folds her arms. “What happened? What did the Hat say to you?”

Sirius doesn’t not to think about it, the way the Hat had _ooh_ -ed when he put it on and then faltered just before calling out Slytherin. “You’re the Black heir,” it had said. Sirius had only swallowed and tried to wipe his mind. He could hear an _s_ on the tip of its tongue, dragging out as the Hat mused just a second longer. 

“I can see your future, you know,” the Hat had continued, and before Sirius could ask when it meant, it opened its mouth and Sorted him into Gryffindor. 

Narcissa’s eyes are boring into him now. “What did it say?” she repeats.

“Nothing,” Sirius says, even though he really wants to ask about the Hat’s supposed prophetic powers. “It just said I was the Black heir, and I said _I know_ , and then — ”

“Your mum’s going to lose her mind,” Andromeda says.

“Not if you don’t tell her.”

“You don’t have a choice,” Narcissa hisses. “You think if you don’t tell her, she won’t know? You think my dad won’t hear it through Professor Slughorn, that you’re not in Slytherin? We are a _pillar_ of wizarding society, Sirius. She _will_ hear about it, and you’ll have to answer to her.”

 _Pillar of wizarding society_ , honestly. Sirius looks to Andromeda for help, but she’s folded her arms to match her younger sister and is nodding seriously. “Believe me, Sirius, it’ll be worse if she hears it from someone other than you.”

“She’ll kill me either way,” he says miserably. “Thanks for the advice, but I’ve got to catch up with the rest of my House.” He catches frowns on both of their faces as he slips between them and makes for the stairs, trying to catch sight of either James or Peter, who have disappeared in the hordes of students milling up and down the stairs.

He winds up running into Professor McGonagall and Remus while they’re returning from what he assumes is her office. Remus looks a bit pale and preoccupied with whatever they’ve been discussing, but he smiles a bit at Sirius from behind McGonagall’s imposing figure when she stops him in the middle of the hallways. “Mr. Black,” she says, “why aren’t you with the rest of the first-years? I thought Longbottom took you up to your common room.”

Sirius shakes his head. “I had to — ” he breaks off, unsure of how to identify his cousins when Professor McGonagall probably should not care about the Prefects of other Houses besides her own “ — a Prefect wanted to speak to me.”

Professor McGonagall inhales sharply. Sirius wonders if maybe she _does_ bother with knowing every single student and where they come from and who they’re related to and whatnot. “Your cousins, I presume,” she says. There’s a glint of something in her eye — Sirius can’t tell what exactly, and he feels distinctly uncomfortable, like she’s dissecting him just by looking at him — not unlike the way his own parents scrutinise him — but she beckons for him to follow her and continues down the corridor. “Come. I’ll take you to your tower.”

Sirius joins Remus behind Professor McGonagall and gives him a once-over as they walk. He likes Remus, even though they’re so different and both Walburga and Orion would balk at the sight of him, wiry and looking as if he’s being swallowed by his robes. There’s a nasty-looking set of scars drawn over his face, three harsh lines that wind from the outside of his eye and across his cheek, stopping at the bottom of his nose. Sirius wants to ask where he got them, but he knows it’s rude, so he contents himself with examining them as discreetly as he can until Remus catches him staring.

James and Peter have already made a mess of the dormitory by the time Sirius arrives, Remus in tow. Peter’s seated cross-legged on one of the beds, surveying the damage; about half of James’ trunk is scattered on the floor while James himself picks his way about his clothes and books. “Sorry,” he says sheepishly, scrambling to clear a path through the room, “thought I lost a set of robes.”

Sirius makes a sort of noncommittal hum and wanders over to the window, popping it open and leaning out into the crisp night air. It’s certainly better than living in the Slytherin dormitories, he thinks, judging by his cousins’ descriptions of the gloomy dungeons, half submerged in the Great Lake, but the problem of how to tell his parents persists. He sighs and turns to his trunk — there’s some weird smear or something on the otherwise shiny, new brass locks, which he assumes must be Kreacher’s way of telling him he won’t be missed from home, and when he opens the trunk, he snorts at the sight of an extra set of dress robes obnoxiously embroidered with the family crest that Walburga has somehow managed to pack in without his knowledge. 

Rooting about in his pocket for his wand, Sirius tugs the robes out and sets them alight. As the blue flames flicker and eat their way up the fabric and Peter stares in amazement — “How did you _do_ that? We haven’t even started classes yet!” — Sirius is aware he must look like a total madman. But then he looks around the dormitory, at the red and gold-accented decor and the way Remus Lupin has frozen in shock with his mouth half open, James Potter laughing maniacally in the background, and Sirius thinks, _Screw you, Mum_ , and chucks the still-burning robes out the open window.

**//**

Remus wakes up at half-past five with an ache in his bones that might tear his body apart. He starts to groan, then remembers he’s not at home and quickly grinds his teeth together instead, toes curling into the mattress and hands clenching into fists with the effort of staying silent while his spine bears the weight of a thousand imaginary bricks. The spasms drag on for nearly fifteen minutes, and by the time Remus manages to relax his fists a bit, any hope of another hour of sleep has dissolved.

Last night, after dinner, Professor McGonagall had pulled him from his table and marched him through a dizzying sequence of corridors and staircases until Remus found himself in front of Albus Dumbledore himself. There was a minute or so of silence while Dumbledore finished writing something, and then he looked up and smiled benevolently at Remus, who was trying to imagine this man showing up unannounced in his father’s office at the Ministry to invite him to Hogwarts.

“Mr. Lupin,” Dumbledore said, steepling his fingers under his chin. “How very nice to make your acquaintance at last. I have, as I’m sure you know, met with your father on numerous occasions. I hope it doesn’t offend you to know you look quite like him. I’m sure Professor McGonagall would agree.”

“Oh, yes,” Professor McGonagall said, much to Remus’ surprise. “Lyall, wasn’t it? He was a few years above me when I myself was here.” She smiled fondly. “Very clever. I hope to see the same from you.”

Unsure of how to respond to these quickly mounting expectations, Remus simply fidgeted where he stood, worrying the hem of his sleeve. Dumbledore must have seen his apprehension, because he cleared his throat and continued, “But of course, I haven’t asked you here to talk about your father. This meeting is more to address the matter of your — ah, condition — and how to go about — ”

“Full moons,” Remus finished. He felt himself flushing, and the thought of what he must look like — scarred, shabby, bright red — only embarrassed him more.

“It’s nothing to embarrassed about,” said Dumbledore, as if reading his mind. Professor McGonagall was standing behind him, her mouth drawn in a thin line, but her eyes had the same softness they’d had when she’d called him to the Sorting Hat. “We have made a number of accommodations for the night of the full moon, which we’ll go over now. The school matron is on her way to discuss this with us as well.”

The school matron was a Madam Pomfrey, who also agreed that Remus looked very much like his father, and clucked sympathetically the whole time whilst Dumbledore detailed an elaborate-sounding plan involving trees and tunnels and who would be meeting whom and where they would be meeting. When Remus asked how many lessons he would have to miss every month, she had sighed despairingly and said, “You’re going to work too hard, aren’t you?” before Professor McGonagall assured him all the teachers knew about his situation and were more than willing to give him extensions on his homework if he ever needed them.

Lying in bed, the beginnings of the sunrise now visible through the window and the pain starting to dull, Remus thinks of the full moon approaching in a few days and immediately tries to draw up a task list of things he needs to do before then. _Have an excuse_ is the first item, followed by _ask professors for work ahead of time._ The throbbing in his joints makes him add _ask Mum to send more painkillers_ — she packed him with half a bottle of pills that Muggles use for all sorts of ailments, but he thinks he’ll need more if he’s meant to pretend he’s normal in front of a bunch of strangers. His parents don't think much when he winces at the painful twinges in his joints and aches in his bones, but he can't afford to have anyone asking him questions here at school. Gritting his teeth nonstop for a week every time the full moon swings by is not an option. The Muggle dentist his mum takes him to once a year will have a fit if she sees he’s still grinding his teeth.

With a heavy sigh, Remus forces himself up into a sitting position — sleep definitely isn’t an option now, not with the brightening sky and the weird mouth noises Peter’s started to make in his sleep — and notes, with some surprise, that Sirius’ bed is empty. He didn’t exactly have Sirius pegged as the kind to be up so early in the morning. _Maybe it’s a pure-blood thing_ , he muses, _some ritual of some sort._

His question is answered when he walks into the washroom and sees Sirius standing in front of the mirror, already fully dressed, doing up his tie. “Morning,” Sirius says, more to his tie than anything else. “Hope I didn’t wake you.”

Remus hums and steps into the bathroom, locking the door behind him before he starts to strip. It’s another problem he should have foreseen: his body. It occurs to him that he’s never lived with anyone else, not even for an overnight stay, not since that night when everything changed. No one, aside from his parents and the Healer at St. Mungo’s his father takes him to see every year, has ever seen him naked. He’s not sure anyone would ever want to, not when there’s barely an inch of unmarred skin on his back. His chest isn’t much better; he finds himself blanking out and staring, eyes unseeing, while water trickles over the fine lines on his skin and his scars look clearer than they’ve been in a while. His arms aren’t much better — there’s an unattractive set of claw marks down his upper arm, and while it’s well-disguised by a series of other, smaller scratches, it still jumps out at him like a haphazardly placed red flag. _Look at me_! the lines say, bright against his pale, greying skin. _Ask me questions_!

All this, and that’s not even starting on his face, Remus reminds himself as he emerges from the shower, passably dressed and hair still damp. He remembers catching Sirius eyeing them last night, and Remus brings a hand to his face self-consciously before he sees Sirius is still standing in front of the mirror at the other end of the bathroom, fiddling with his tie again. It’s been more than fifteen minutes, surely, Remus thinks with a hint of incredulity — Sirius doesn’t strike him as the type to preen — but then he remembers the way James reacted to hearing Sirius’ name, the way the Slytherins murmured at the sight of him. 

_Aristocracy._ It’s more trouble than it’s worth.

“Sleep well?” Sirius asks, startling Remus out of what is quickly turning into a meditation on social class. He’s _still_ in front of the mirror, eyes fixed on his reflection now, combing the part in his hair.

“All right,” Remus says. He hates being asked about his nights, even more so this close to the full moon. His parents know better than to ask, they know his answer will just upset all three of them. They stopped asking years ago. He keeps his dreams to himself, sheltered away under layers of Silencing Charms and whatever else his father does to keep his mother from hearing his screaming. “You?”

“About as well as can be expected,” Sirius says, finally deeming his appearance acceptable and spinning around. Remus wishes he wouldn’t, wishes Sirius would just leave the bathroom so that he can redo his shirt buttons in peace. “Waiting for the shoe to drop.” He turns around again to check his appearance in the mirror again and then sighs, gesturing vaguely at himself. “Absolute bollocks, this. Still — ” Remus wants to slap his hand away from his hair at this point “ — must keep up appearances for _dear old Mother_. You know the way it is.”

Remus doesn’t know the way it is. The way Sirius talks about being pure-blood makes him nervous; he’s clearly exasperated and different from his cousins, but he still carries himself with the air of someone who’s spent their entire life at posh dinners, people-pleasing, always shown off as a testament to his parents. His upbringing couldn’t be more different from Remus’ own, spent shrouded and hidden by his parents — for his own good as well as theirs, but still — best spent in obscurity. For a moment Remus feels intensely annoyed — _it’s just the moon_ , _it’s just happening someplace new_ , _you know how to handle this_ , he repeats to himself — and he wishes he was Sirius or James, or Peter, or literally anyone else in the entire school. He’s so angry thinking about how badly he wants to have Sirius’ childhood of socialising with other high-up families, and then so shocked at his own pettiness, that he completely misses Sirius saying, “Well, see you at breakfast, then,” as he strides out the door.

Breakfast, as it turns out, instantly dissolves any lingering misguided envy Remus has over Sirius’ childhood. James has only just come racing into the Great Hall and taken a seat next to Remus, hair tousled from sleep but eyes bright, when the morning post arrives and an intimidating eagle owl drops a letter in front of Sirius. An inch lower and the owl could probably take someone’s eye out, Remus thinks, leaning back cautiously as the owl takes to the air again.

“Hecuba,” Sirius says grimly, waving his hand in the direction of the owl, which has swooped off almost as quickly as it arrived. “My mother’s.”

The envelope is bright red and smoking slightly as it lies, untouched, on the table in front of Sirius’ plate. Remus has a faint recollection of seeing these before, but James’ eyebrows shoot into his hairline and Peter immediately turns a very distinctive shade of grey. 

“Sirius, mate, you’d better open that,” Frank Longbottom, the fifth-year Prefect, says from several seats down the table, eyeing the envelope with a mixture of concern and displeasure. 

Sirius heaves a resigned sigh and flicks the envelope away without opening it. “Might as well enjoy the last few moments of my dignity.” He glances up and tilts his chin up, indicating the something on the other side of the Hall. “Look at Andromeda and Narcissa.”

Remus and James turn to look over their shoulders at Sirius’ cousins, sat side by side near the head of the Slytherin table. They’ve both noticed the red envelope in front of Sirius, but Andromeda is clearly more interested in getting someone to pass her the coffeepot than seeing whatever her cousin has in store for him. Narcissa practically looks like block of white marble next to her older sister, ghostly pale and one hand clenched around her collar as if she’s trying to loosen it to breathe while avoiding eye contact with everyone around her.

Neither of them have to look to find out what happens, anyway. The envelope explodes after a few more seconds of belching smoke angrily, and a voice that Remus guesses belongs to Sirius’ mother fills the Hall. It’s so shrill and full of such lengthy, well-crafted insults that he doesn’t really catch anything besides _absolute embarrassment_ and _poor influence_ and _your father and I will be watching your every move_ amongst the seemingly endless string of hysterics. The Hall is stunned into total silence at first before a few students laugh and carry on as if no one’s getting their head nearly taken off right behind them, but as the screaming continues on and on — _doesn’t she need to breathe_? — it gets harder to ignore, until pretty much the entire Hall falls silent again, watching and listening as Sirius cups his chin in his hand and waits for the abuse to end. Eventually it does end, but only because Professor McGonagall finally takes pity and turns it into an alarm clock — still red and vibrating violently but silent for the time being — before magicking it away with her wand. 

James looks absolutely delighted. “I didn’t know you could get rid of a Howler like that!” he says, nearly knocking over his pumpkin juice.

“You can’t,” Professor McGonagall says, rubbing her forehead and looking like she’d very much like the term to end already. “It will still explode, just within the confines of my office.” Remus tries to imagine the alarm clock, ticking madly and exploding back into the letter, yelling obscenities at an empty room. “Please continue your breakfast.”

“Sorry,” Sirius says, more to Frank Longbottom, who’s staring in wide-eyed horror, than anybody else. He sweeps a couple of stray ashes onto the floor. 

Frank shrugs, a silent _it’s okay_. “It’s not my place to say,” he says, “but if it makes you feel better, there’s plenty of pure-bloods who don’t get Sorted into Slytherin. It’s not such a bad thing, you know.”

Sirius nods and looks back at his friends. Remus averts his eyes, hoping no one notices the flush he’s developing on his cheeks, a side-effect of the sudden guilt of being annoyed with Sirius’ perfect, cushy life earlier.

**//**

Remus’ first full moon away from home is not as terrible as he thought it would be, but it’s still awful. He’s in so much pain when he comes to, crumpled on the floor of the dingy shack they’ve locked him in, that he doesn’t even care that Madam Pomfrey isn’t his mother. She hauls him up into a sitting position and drapes a blanket over him, saying _take your time_ and _slowly_ , _now_ while she waits for him to get dressed again, and Remus spends the entire painstaking walk back up to the castle feeling like he’s in one of his mother’s old Muggle films, his vision all fuzzy and tinted an ugly sepia. 

“I’m missing History of Magic,” he mumbles, when Madam Pomfrey steers him towards a bed in the Hospital Wing and points at the set of pyjamas already waiting for him. “I feel fine, really, I can go.”

He doesn’t actually feel fine — he feels just the same as he always does after a transformation, all achy and like the air around him weighs a thousand pounds, pressing down on his head and collapsing it in on itself — but he’s never had class to miss before, and the prospect of falling behind so early in the term terrifies him almost more than someone finding out his secret. He’s been very diligent about all his work so far, worrying that he might not have it in him to finish the essays they’ve been set once the moon has rolled around, and honestly, if he’s going to sleep it off, he might as well do it in Professor Binns’ class, where he might be able to absorb some information subconsciously. But Madam Pomfrey only tuts at him — “Absolutely not,” she snaps, looking horrified at the very notion of sending him off to class in his condition — and more or less pushes him into bed, so Remus sighs and tries to find a position that doesn’t make his body want to immediately crumble to pieces.

He sleeps through the whole morning and most of the afternoon, drifting in and out of a haze. Madam Pomfrey finally lets him go in time for dinner, not that Remus really feels like eating much, and he wanders back to the Gryffindor common room to find his friends huddled in the corner near the portrait hole, whispering about something he can’t quite catch. He tries to make it to the dormitory stairs before they spot him, but the plan is immediately scuppered when James catches sight of him and grins.

“Remus!” he says excitedly, commanding the attention of both Peter and Sirius. “You’re back! You all right? You’re looking a bit peaky — where’ve you been?”

“Hospital Wing,” says Remus, figuring it’s better to stick close to the truth while he still can. “I’m fine, just feeling a bit off.”

Sirius frowns. “You look downright ill,” he says, but he doesn’t ask anything else. “We were about to go to dinner. Come on, let’s go, you look like you could do with some food.”

Remus really could do _without_ the clashing smells of roast chicken and vegetables — his nose is still sensitive and he’s starting to wish he had stayed in the Hospital Wing a bit longer — but he can’t help feeling a little warmed by the fact that someone’s picked up on his absence and asked after him, so he sighs and follows his friends to the Great Hall. _You won’t be feeling that way a few months from now_ , he reminds himself, because he can already tell after a week of term that James and Sirius have a sort of insatiable curiosity about them that will be difficult to avoid. Even so, they seem satisfied for now and chat loudly over the table instead of pestering him with questions, filling him in about what he’s missed in Charms and how Professor Binns completely failed to notice a paper airplane war that Sirius started with Marlene McKinnon in History of Magic. 

Marlene, who’s sitting just a few seats away, laughs when she overhears them recounting the events of the day. “It was fun,” she agrees, producing another folded up piece of parchment from the inside cover of her textbook and sending it sailing over their heads. James catches it easily before sending it back over, where it promptly hits Lily Evans on the forehead.

“Sorry, Evans!” James calls cheerfully.

Lily rolls her eyes in a sort of tired, despairing way and then glares, but her face softens when she spots Remus. “Hi, Remus,” she says, brightening. “Missed you in class today. I hope you’re feeling better.”

Remus beams. He likes Lily; they’ve been paired up in Charms for the last week and he feels bad that he should have missed class and left her without a partner today. She’s certainly a change of speed from the rest of his friends, the three of whom are now thoroughly engaged in a weird head-wrestling sort of match over the table (Peter is trying very hard to avoid dragging his tie in his gravy while Sirius half-strangles him; Remus doesn’t want to know how it started), but she’s clever and quick enough to give even James a run for his money. 

“I’ve got notes, if you need them,” Lily continues, “unless they’ve already given you theirs?”

Remus glances at his friends, still engaged in their sparring, and sighs. Lily smiles sympathetically. “I’ll take yours,” Remus says, and tries not to gag on his dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok i'm moving into my new apartment like the day after tomorrow and i have to quarantine from my flatmate for 14 days because,,, duh, and i'm finally starting to shift out of the new-fic-funk so fingers crossed i get lots of writing done before the semester starts and things get crazy lmao
> 
> also, this is totally unprompted but. sirius and remus height difference. thinking about it has restored a single crumb of serotonin


	4. iii. what we will become

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as i edit and post this, i am waiting for my plane that's been delayed from 2 until 10pm lol. you would not believe what i have already had to do to get to boston (my original flight got cancelled too lmao). the man who helped me put my bag up overhead (because i have twig arms) asked me what homework i was doing and i had to pretend this was for school. i hope you enjoy lol

_what are you thinking? how are you feeling? who are you? what have we done to each other? what will we do?_

— gillian flynn, _gone girl_

**_mid-september 1971_ **

It’s nearly two weeks into term when Lily finally manages to get ahold of Severus outside of classes. They run into each other early Saturday morning in the Owlery, Severus nearly walking straight into her, his nose buried in a letter that he’s still finishing even as he rounds the corner from the stairs. “Oh,” he says, lowering his parchment, though he doesn’t sound particularly surprised, “hello.”

“Hi,” Lily says, yanking his sleeve before he steps on a pile of owl droppings. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Our Houses don’t exactly mix well,” Severus says bitterly. “And you seem to have your own friends in — in your House, now.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Lily says. “Just because I have friends from class doesn’t mean _we’re_ not still friends. We’re more than just schoolmates, aren’t we, Sev?” She doesn’t miss the way Severus withholds from saying the name _Gryffindor_ , like it’s a forbidden word — and maybe it is, in some circles. Sirius Black’s family certainly seems to think so, she thinks, remembering the shrill voice of the Black matriarch as it rang through the Hall, loud enough to make even her cringe. “Come on, send your owl and we can go for a walk if you’d like.”

Severus nods once, and Lily waits patiently for him to settle on an owl for his message. “How’re classes?” she asks. “Besides Herbology?”

“Fine,” he says. “I wish our Houses had more double classes together this year. Herbology’s — ” He makes a vague flicking motion with one hand, obviously annoyed by the simple thought of it. “I can’t do anything in that class, not with Potter and Black pulling pranks the way they do. Double Potions would be nice, I could show you the ropes.”

“Potter and Black are _always_ doing stupid things,” Lily says, slipping her arm through Severus’ and leading him to the stairs. “It’s not just Herbology. Anyway, I think I’m doing all right in Potions.”

Severus whips around to stare at her. “You are?”

“Why, are you surprised?” she laughs. “Yeah, it’s good fun. Slughorn seems impressed, at least. I reckon I’m handling myself okay in that class.” She doesn’t miss the way Severus’ shoulders slump, though, clearly disappointed that he doesn’t have a chance to show off to her, so she shrugs and adds, “What do you think, beginner’s luck?”

Severus gives her an odd look. _What’s that supposed to be_? Lily wonders. _Envy_? _Irritation_?

“It’ll get harder,” he says finally, pulling his arm away when they round the corner. Lily can’t help but notice as he glances over at a few of the boys she’s seen Severus with, his companions between classes, in Herbology, at meals. “I’ve got to go. I said I’d meet Mulciber for breakfast.”

Lily can’t find it in her to protest, only mutters _okay_ and watches as he runs after the pair of Slytherins at the end of the corridor. She waits a few seconds and then pivots on her heel, heading back to the Gryffindor common room.

It stings a bit, Severus’ silence. It’s not like that between them; it’s _never_ been like that. It’s always been _wait until you see_ and _look at this_ and _when we’re at Hogwarts_ , _we’ll_ — not whatever game he’s playing now. For a moment, it occurs to Lily that maybe Severus is _embarrassed_ by her, by the fact that he’s such fast friends with a Gryffindor, but she quickly strikes that thought from her mind. And frankly, Lily adds to herself, she’s not sure why he’s so surprised that she’s not in Slytherin. From what the Sorting Hat says, and from what she’s read in _Hogwarts_ : _A History_ , she never had a chance, being Muggle-born and all. Still, she can’t stop thinking about the way he extracted his arm from hers, the way he doesn’t say _Gryffindor_ , the way he rushed over to Mulciber without a single look back at her.

“Earth to Lily!” someone yells, and Lily pulls herself from her thoughts just quickly enough to avoid tripping up the stairs to her dormitory. Marlene and Mary are lounging on the sofa across the common room, waving to her. “Where are you going? I thought we were going to breakfast together.”

“We are,” Lily says, flushing and hurrying over to her friends. “Sorry. I forgot where I was for a moment.”

They head down to the Great Hall, where James Potter and his friends — namely Sirius Black — are already up to something, much to the chagrin of Frank Longbottom, who nods a _good morning_ to her. She spots Severus and his two mates entering on the other side of the Hall and almost catches his eye, but then Severus turns his back on her again in what is clearly ignorance, so Lily sighs and gives into sitting next to James Potter, who immediately upsets his entire goblet of pumpkin juice all over her plate.

**//**

**_october 1971_ **

Sirius spends far too much energy trying to avoid his cousins.

It’s more like he is trying to avoid his _cousin_ , _cousin_ with no - _s_ , just the one. Andromeda seems to understand he’s not really in the mood to be lectured, not now, not ever, and that there’s really nothing she can do to change the situation. But Narcissa is _Narcissa_ , full of Black filial loyalty and dramatic nature that is probably directly influenced by Bellatrix, and she is relentless in tracking people down even when they don’t want to be found. Sirius takes to hiding behind tapestries and ducking into classrooms when he sees her, and it gets to a crisis point about a month into the term when he arrives in Transfiguration fifteen minutes late, having spent about twenty minutes hiding in an empty classroom at the sight of something silvery-white patrolling the hallway that really just turned out to be the ghost of the Grey Lady. Professor McGonagall mercifully holds off on berating him in front of the entire class, but she holds Sirius back once the lesson is over and slams the door shut with a flick of her wand.

“This is not the first class you’ve been late to, Mr. Black,” she says, watching him over the rim of her spectacles. “Professor Flitwick says you have consistently been tardy in his class for the last week.”

“Only by a minute,” Sirius says.

“‘Late by a minute’ is still _late_ ,” Professor McGonagall snaps. “Would you care to explain?”

Sirius sighs. He’s not really sure what to tell her; she’s not exactly the type to have heart-to-heart chats with her students, and he doesn’t _want_ to dive into the complexity of his family life with someone who frankly, probably, is only asking because her job dictates it. “I got held up in the hallways,” he says finally.

“You’re not lost, are you?”

Sirius snorts. “No.”

“Then _kindly_ elaborate, Mr. Black, or I’m afraid the only thing I can do to deter this kind of behaviour is giving you detention.”

Sirius winces. He hasn’t forgotten the last detention he and James served with her for passing notes, most of which included rather rude messages about a certain Severus Snape, in class. She’d set them the task of cleaning all the blackboards in the third-floor classrooms, which wouldn’t have been half as bad if Peeves hadn’t been following them from room to room, spilling chalk dust on every board just as they finished cleaning. “I’m trying to avoid my cousin,” Sirius blurts, forcing the words out as fast as he can, as if they’ll sound less childish this way. “Not Andromeda,” he adds quickly, when Professor McGonagall raises her eyebrows. “Narcissa.”

“ _Ah_.”

“She’s been after me since the start of term.”

“I presume this is to do with your Sorting into Gryffindor instead of Slytherin, like the rest of your family?” Sirius doesn’t say anything, and McGonagall takes this for an answer. “Well — I don’t need to tell you, Mr. Black, that missing classes for such petty reasons as avoiding other students is unacceptable. That said, I will refrain from giving you detention for the last week of late arrivals, given your — ” she pauses to take a deep breath, eyes closed, and Sirius knows she’s probably thinking about the Howler his mother sent him — he wonders how much damage it did to her office when it finally did explode “ — _situation_ , but rest assured I will gladly begin assigning them if this continues. We are now a month into the term, and so I think it would be prudent of you to find your cousin and have an honest conversation with her, rather than running around playing hide-and-seek in the castle, don’t you?”

Sirius doesn’t really want to see her point, but he looks down at his feet and nods anyway. “Good,” Professor McGonagall says crisply, standing again. “I expect to see you in class _on time_ tomorrow.”

Remus and Peter are loitering just outside the classroom door, waiting for Sirius. Remus explains James’ absence with an eyeroll, saying, “He wants to watch Quidditch try-outs and get a _feel for the team_ , whatever that means,” and Peter bounds forward, demanding, “What did she want?” Sirius is glad James isn’t there to bombard him with any more questions. He’s not sure he would want to elaborate on his family issues for James’ interest any more than he would for Professor McGonagall.

“It’s not detention,” Sirius says, and Peter sighs a dramatic sigh of relief, “but I can’t stop to talk. I have to go find Narcissa.”

Remus’ eyebrows shoot up. “Save you a seat at dinner, then?”

“Unless you don’t think you’ll make it,” Peter says.

“Shut up, don’t be so dramatic,” Sirius says, but he huffs out a little laugh. “Say a little prayer for me, if it calms your nerves. I’ll be around. See you.”

“Good luck,” says Remus, his voice very quiet as Sirius brushes past him. Sirius flashes him a little smile — _don't_ _worry about me_ , _it'll_ _be fine, it's_ _just a conversation with my cousin_! — but he drops it almost as soon as he’s turned his back on his friends. 

It’s not that he is dreading this meeting. It’s not that he’s afraid, it’s not even that he doesn’t like Narcissa, because he doesn’t, he actually really doesn’t mind her, even though she gets worked up about the wrong things and has terrible taste in men. He just hates the reason for this conversation; it’s not his fault, what the Sorting Hat thinks and does is its own business, it’s not like he has any control over it, and why does he have to be lectured on it now — over a _month_ into the term into the term, honestly, doesn’t Narcissa have better things to worry about? — when he’s been hearing the same stuff for the last ten years of his life, since he’s been able to speak? He’s so tired of it, he thinks, of the constant responsibility. It’s practically performance art at this point.

He conveniently runs into Lucius Malfoy at the foot of the stairs by the Great Hall; Sirius grabs him by his robes, ignoring the way his nostrils flare and his eyes gleam with something just short of flat-out contempt. “Where’s Narcissa?”

“Come around, finally, have you?” Lucius sneers, and Sirius resists the desire to slap him. The familiar rage brought about Lucius sticking his nose in the Black family’s business, trying to get involved in Andromeda’s friends, bubbles up within him. “She’s in the library.”

“Thanks,” Sirius grumbles, and sets off to the library.

He spots her just inside the entrance, seated at a table with a few friends Sirius recognizes from past family functions and events at which he’s been forced to make an appearance. Her back is to him, and he considers leaving before there can be any risk of causing a scene in front of her friends — and in the _library_ of all places — but before he can back out, one of her friends spots him, nudges her, and points.

“Sirius,” Narcissa starts, shuffling all her books together and shoving them in her bag. “Come on. Let’s go.” She seizes his wrist and half-drags him out of the library, only letting go when they find themselves in a deserted corridor. 

“Sorry,” she says apologetically, when Sirius rubs his wrist. “I just didn’t want my friends to hear this conversation.”

“Neither did I,” Sirius mutters. “So what’ve you been chasing me down for the last month for?”

“First of all, I want you to know that I did _not_ go to your mother about your Sorting. That wasn’t me. I’m not sure how she found out so quickly. Andromeda and I are both sorry about the Howler.”

Sirius shrugs. The Howler was more annoying than embarrassing, honestly. “Well, you’re both right,” he says. “My mother has spies everywhere. No doubt your dad or mine heard it from Slughorn — like you said they would — and passed on the message.”

Looking relieved that Sirius doesn’t blame her for the Howler, Narcissa plows on. “That said,” she says, “I think you need to be careful about the — ” she pauses, choosing her words carefully “ — _image_ you project.”

 _There it is_. Sirius folds his arms. “What _image_?”

Narcissa scowls. “Don’t play dumb,” she snaps. “The way you act around your . . . _friends_ — all these pranks you’re pulling with that Potter boy — don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about, Samuel McKinnon said he took points off you for trying to rig the entrance to the Slytherin common rooms with dungbombs — it’s almost as if you’re — you’re _glad_.” She wrinkles her nose, and Sirius is faintly reminded of that first dinner when he became aware of what exactly his fate was. “As if you’re glad to be in _Gryffindor_.”

“What’s wrong with that? It’s a perfectly respectable House. Frank Longbottom’s one of us, and _he'_ _s_ a Gryffindor.”

Narcissa sniffs. “Gryffindor might be a ‘perfectly respectable’ House, but it’s not ours. The Longbottoms have a legacy in Gryffindor. The House of Black has a legacy in Slytherin. You could at least _act_ like you’re not pleased about your placement for the sake of the family.”

Sirius makes a noise of disgust. “Oh, because it’s more becoming for the family if the so-called heir is miserable and embarrassed about being in the wrong House, like an outcast?”

“Sirius, if you don’t watch yourself, you _will_ be an outcast from our family,” Narcissa says, her eye twitching. “I can guarantee that when we go home for the winter holidays, your mother won’t be pleased to hear you’ve gone around making yourself at home in _the wrong House_. You realize what kind of position this has put our family in, don’t you?”

“You’re saying that like I asked the Sorting Hat not to be put in Slytherin! How was I supposed to know it was going to go about mucking up our family?”

“I didn’t mean it like that. You know I didn’t,” Narcissa says impatiently. “But you need to realise what this means for your mother and father. You need to recognise how important our family is, Sirius; we’re one of the purest families there is. If a Black can’t be sorted into Slytherin — well, what kind of message does that send? It calls your — your pedigree into question. Your mother and father have done a lot for you, Sirius, for me and Bella and Andromeda as well. The least you could do is try to repay them, help them save face a bit.”

“My _pedigree_ ,” Sirius repeats, incredulous. “It’s all right, it’s just us, Narcissa. You can call it breeding.” Her eyes narrow dangerously. “I’m not going to stand here and be lectured on what I owe to my parents. I didn’t ask for this. Why can’t everyone just keep focusing on Bella — we all know she can’t get enough of the attention!”

“Don’t speak about your cousin like that,” Narcissa interrupts. “And I know you didn’t ask for it, but I wish you’d just see that this is the way things are!”

A million retorts rush through Sirius’ mind. “Well, I wish _you_ would see that ‘the way things are’ is that I’m in Gryffindor, and I live with three other Gryffindors, and so _yes_ , I enjoy their company. Forgive me for not wanting to cosy up to _Severus Snape_ , of all people, Narcissa.”

“I’m not saying you should cosy up to Severus Snape!” Narcissa huffs, her face turning pink with the effort of trying to keep her voice down. “I’m saying — people like _us_ , Sirius, people like the Carrows, or Cuthbert Selwyn — ”

“I’m not cosying up to fifth-years, either.”

“All right, that Mulciber boy, then! He’s in your year.”

“Sure he’s _pure_ enough for my parents’ liking?” Sirius sneers. “Can’t recall seeing him at any family dinners.”

Narcissa glares. “Stop it, Sirius. This isn’t a joke.”

Sirius sighs. “Look, I don’t know why you’re so desperate to smooth things over for me and my parents. It doesn’t matter what goes on between us, they’ll make sure everything turns out right in the end. They’ll do anything, you know that.” Narcissa blanches, and Sirius wonders if she’s remembering the time he turned up to dinner with a black eye from his father. “You don’t have to do my mother’s dirty work.”

“I’m _not_ doing it for your mother, Sirius, I’m — ”

“Doing _what_ for his mother?” says a quiet voice from the end of the hall. 

Narcissa jumps, turning so fast to look that her hair catches Sirius’ chin. Andromeda’s standing there, books in hand, staring at the two of them. Behind her stands a boy in a black and yellow tie with a Prefect badge pinned to his robes that Sirius guesses is the famous Ted Tonks, subject of so much Black family discourse. 

“ _Doing what_?” Andromeda repeats.

Narcissa scowls at Ted — or at her sister, Sirius can’t really tell from where he’s standing — and her mouth flattens into a thin little line. “I’m trying to keep the holiday dinner civil,” she says finally. “But if Sirius doesn’t want to take my advice on how to get back in Uncle Orion and Aunt Walburga’s good books, then on his own head be it.” And she sweeps off in the opposite direction, nose in the air.

Andromeda stares after her for a second, then turns to Sirius. “Is she still going on about how much your parents have done for you?” When Sirius nods, she snorts. “I thought so. She tried to have me give you the lecture first. Told her she could do it herself, if it meant so much to her; your parents haven’t done shit and I’m not about to start pretending they have. Come on, let’s go. It’s nearly time for dinner.”

**//**

**_late october 1971_ **

Halloween is torturous for Remus. He spends the last few days of October in a sluggish daze, fighting off a persistent headache that distracts him in lessons and disturbs his sleep. His professors, thankfully, seem to realise that the full moon is rounding the corner and refrain from reprimanding him when he nearly falls asleep in class — Slughorn laughs it off when his cure for boils bubbles over and burns a hole through his work bench in Potions — but there’s no way for him to sufficiently explain to his friends why he can’t attend the feast on the night of Halloween. 

He could if he really wanted to, he knows — the full moon isn’t for another two days — but by the time Sunday afternoon pulls around, Remus simply wants to forget about Halloween and pretend he’s safely at home, where he would be able to spend the next 48 hours lying in bed in the dark without anyone bothering him. As it is, James and Sirius are inexhaustible, and Peter is full of endless questions, so Remus sighs and stays in the common room with them, trying his best to hold a conversation while finishing his History of Magic essay and getting ahead on the rest of his homework.

“What’re you doing, already starting on your Charms homework?” James says, looking up in disbelief from the game of chess he and Sirius are playing. “It’s not due for another few days.”

“Thought I might try to finish it early,” Remus says without looking up. 

Sirius stares at him. “Anyone ever told you that you work too hard?” 

Remus hums. “McGonagall might’ve mentioned it.”

“That’s true,” Peter says, eager to get in on the conversation again. “I heard her saying so when she was handing back last week’s essays.”

Remus flushes, more from alarm than anything else. He didn’t know anyone had heard his conversation with Professor McGonagall after class earlier in the week, when he approached her desk after class to ask what he would be missing. “I didn’t know you heard that,” he says, looking up sharply. “What else did you hear?”

“Nothing,” Peter says. His eyes are wide, questioning, and Remus berates himself for getting so worked up. _Are you crazy_? _Do you_ want _them to be wondering what’s wrong with you_? “It was just as you were leaving — we were waiting outside the classroom for you.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway, I think a break’s in order,” James says, glancing at the clock above the fireplace. “Feast’s about to start in a few. What say you we make our way downstairs?”

“You’re only suggesting that because you’re losing,” Sirius says, but he stands up too. “Coming, Peter? Remus?”

Remus thinks of the Hall, of all the sounds and smells, and his headache throbs once, extra painfully, like a threat. “I don’t think so,” he says. He knows it’s weird to skip the Halloween feast, and there’s not a good way to explain his aversion to it without revealing everything, but the very thought of being surrounded by hundreds of other students, chattering loudly and eating, is enough to make him gag. “I’m not feeling well.”

“Bullshit,” says James vindictively, and from a few feet away, Alice Fortescue’s head snaps up from her book.

“Language, Potter!” she chides.

“Sorry,” James calls back, not sounding sorry at all. Then, to Remus, “Come on, you can’t miss out on the feast.”

“I think I can,” Remus says. He pinches the bridge of his nose, begs his headache to go away one last time. “Seriously, I’m really — I’m not feeling well. You three go on without me.”

Sirius throws him an odd look, but it’s difficult to read. Is it pity? Skepticism? Remus can’t be sure, but he bows his head and stares at his Charms notes in front of him until his friends leave, Peter still casting furtive glances over his shoulder. _Please_ , _don'_ _t ask_. _Just go away_.

He ends up crawling into bed, head still pounding, before the sun has even set. He wants to lock the dormitory door and sleep for a week, all the way through the full moon. He wants to lay in bed and let his limbs hold him down like weights at the bottom of the sea. He wants to close his eyes and feel the tugging at his joints and the deep aching in his bones just leave his body, sucked out by his bed.

He wants to go home.

Homesickness isn’t the word for it. He doesn’t miss his home. He doesn’t miss his parents. He just doesn’t want to transform, not here, not where he’s at the mercy of his teachers and trying not to tip off his friends. He wants the safety of being alone, undisturbed by questions or concern. It’s misdirected — nothing’s wrong, he’s not ill, this is just how he is.

He thinks about how he was in the library earlier in the day, head in his hands and eyes squeezed shut, trying to calm himself down for long enough to get some proper work done, when Lily Evans had come across him, touched him lightly on the shoulder, and asked, “Are you okay?” 

_No_ , he wanted to say, _my bones are about to crumble into dust and my head might collapse in upon itself any second now_. _It'_ _s probably best you don'_ _t ask me questions because I'_ _m a werewolf and I'_ _m not supposed to be here._ But what he actually ended up saying out loud was: “Yes, yeah, it’s just a headache. I — I get them a lot. It’s nothing new.” _It'_ _s no cause for concern because I can'_ _t remember things weren't like this. I can't remember the last time I didn't_ _have this reminder of what I am_.

Lily’s eyebrows drew together and she studied his face — he thought maybe he needed to repeat himself — but then she said, “Oh. Okay — well, I was going to ask if you wanted to do the Charms work together, but — hope you feel better.” And she disappeared off into the maze of shelves, leaving Remus to slump forward with his head on the table.

Now, lying with his eyes half-closed and one hand strewn over his forehead, bracing himself for his friends’ return to the dormitory, Remus wishes his friends were more like Lily sometimes. No follow-up questions. No lies. Simple.

**//**

**_november 1971_ **

Sirius wakes up on his birthday to James and Peter’s maniacal laughter and a pair of firecrackers zooming around the dormitory.

“Thanks,” he says drily, watching one of them crash into his trunk and promptly explode in a shower of colourful sparks. “Shame I don’t have another set of dress robes to set on fire.”

“You shouldn’t be setting _anything_ on fire,” Frank’s voice calls from outside their door. “I can hear firecrackers in there.”

“No firecrackers here,” James yells back. “You’re imagining things, Frank.”

“Potter, I’m not stupid. I know it’s Black’s birthday, so I won’t have Samuel take points off you, but if you could avoid bringing anything into the Hall, that would be much appreciated.”

James grins at Sirius. “We were going to send a bunch of fireworks into the Great Hall until Alice Fortescue overheard. Figured we should try to go a week without detention for once. Hope you’re not disappointed.”

“Two fireworks are enough, thanks,” Sirius says, getting out of bed with a half-disparaging, half-appreciative glance at the burned out fireworks smoking by his trunk. “Someone wake Remus up, he can’t seriously have slept through that, can he?”

James and Peter seem to notice the silence emanating from Remus’ corner of the room for the first time, and James tugs open the hangings to reveal an empty bed, unslept in, the covers still neatly made. He glances at Peter. “Where’s he gone?”

Peter shrugs, picking through the pile of half-worn clothes stacked on Remus’ chair. “Dunno. Gone for a walk, maybe.”

Sirius eyes both James and Peter; at least they both seem genuinely confused by Remus’ absence. “Doesn’t matter,” he says, though it does, a bit, because over the last two months he’s grown to really like having Remus around, and it stings that Remus has more or less done a runner on his birthday. “I’m sure he’ll turn up at breakfast.” 

Remus isn’t at breakfast, either, but Sirius is mostly distracted by the arrival of various owls at his table — including Hecuba, who nearly takes his fingers off before absconding, and Niobe, the owl he shares with Regulus back home, who merely glares at him as if she knows that he’s been a major disappointment to his parents. One of the school owls screeches in with a red envelope, and Sirius is seized by momentary panic until he sees James and Peter trying not to laugh.

“Oh, don’t tell me _you'_ _ve_ sent me a Howler,” he groans, poking it with a fork and releasing a rather off-key and foul-mouthed rendition of _Happy Birthday_ into the Hall. The song sends Marlene McKinnon into a fit of laughter, and Lily Evans has to thump her on the back to keep her from choking on her eggs.

“Very funny,” she huffs from across the table.

“Thanks for the birthday wishes,” Sirius says lightly. “Oh — Evans, you don’t happen to know where Remus is, do you?”

Evans frowns. “Why would I know that?”

“I don’t know, you two are partners in Charms.”

“Yes, but I don’t share a dormitory with him.” She eyes Sirius with a mixture of distrust and irritation — Sirius can’t blame her, he knows she and Snivellus have some history together, and he's never been particularly friendly — but she sighs again and then wishes him a happy birthday in a grim but sincere voice. It cheers him up, and James as well — “I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to one of us, Evans!” — until McGonagall passes by the table and docks five points for the Howler’s inappropriate language.

“Oh, come on Professor — it’s Sirius’ birthday!” Peter protests.

“And my gift to Mr. Black is that I’m not taking more points,” Professor McGonagall says, eyeing Sirius over the rim of her spectacles.

Sirius squints, trying to decide whether her expression is one of reproach or resignation, then starts so violently that the table shakes. “Professor — do you know where Remus is?”

Professor McGonagall, who has already begun making her way back to the table at the front of the Hall, turns slowly on her heel and presses her lips together. “Mr. Lupin was taken ill last night,” she says, her expression pulled into an unreadable mask, “but Madam Pomfrey assures me he is doing well.” The news catches James and Peter’s ears, and they stop laughing at the pile of ashes in front of them to watch Professor McGonagall return to the staff table. 

“He _has_ been looking a bit off lately,” James says finally, staring at the empty space next to Sirius. “He skipped the Halloween feast. Blimey, didn’t know he was doing so poorly. He works too hard, he does.”

Sirius chews on his lip, feeling guilty for believing so readily that Remus would just forget about his birthday for any reason except a truly valid one. 

“Cheer up,” Peter says. “McGonagall said he’s doing all right, I’m sure he’ll be in class.” He pokes at the parcels still lying on the table. “These from your family, then?”

Sirius tears his thoughts from wondering if they should try to find Remus and picks up the letter from Regulus. “Yeah,” he says, pocketing it for later and turning his attention to the package Hecuba’s left by his plate. “This one’s from my parents — I hope they haven’t sent anything to embarrass me, I can’t take another reminder that I’m the black sheep of the family — ”

“Funny, I would’ve thought your whole family was Black sheep,” James quips, earning him an eye-roll from Sirius. “Nah, package that small, looks like it’s probably just money, I’d think.”

“You never know,” Sirius says. Bellatrix turned twenty this summer, and Sirius has a vomit-inducing memory of seeing his aunt and uncle leading Rodolphus Lestrange over to her and more-or-less forcing them to take each others’ hands in front of everyone at her birthday dinner; the meaning couldn’t have been clearer. He sighs and wiggles his fingers under the flap of the envelope; he wouldn’t be terribly surprised if his parents sent an engagement ring and instructions on who he’s supposed to propose to. But James is right, it’s just money — a generous number of Galleons that Sirius decides not to dump out on the table, seeing the way Peter’s ears turn pink when he hears the coins clinking in the envelope — accompanied by a letter penned in Walburga’s handwriting and signed by both his parents, although his father’s signature still looks remarkably like his mother’s handwriting. Sirius tosses the letter onto the leftover debris from the Howler and sets it on fire again with his wand.

“Oi, you want to watch yourself, Black,” Frank scolds from a bit further down.

Sirius only grins. “Better than fireworks, isn’t it?”

“Are you _burning_ Aunt Walburga’s letter?”

Sirius whips around. Andromeda’s standing over him with a half-amused expression, Narcissa just behind her with a disdainful frown that says she wished she hadn’t come over. “Did you even read it?” she asks.

“I read enough of it to know there wasn’t anything in it that she hasn’t already told me every single year.”

Andromeda laughs. “Very nice,” she says, holding out a tiny box. “Anyway, happy birthday. From both of us.”

The gift turns out to be a tie clip and a set of cuff links, which Sirius thinks might look excessive for any other twelve year-old, but is fairly standard for his stuffy and traditional family. The tie clip is a simple bar, and both it and the cuff links are gold, he notes, not silver. They’re not engraved with _toujours pur_ like his father’s, they’re not obvious symbols of pure-blood status like the squiggly serpentine clip pinning down Narcissa’s tie. It’s an acknowledgement of where he’s ended up, a peace offering of sorts, and one look at Narcissa tells Sirius that she’s had more of a hand in putting this gift together than she wants to let on. A rush of gratitude swells up within him. “Thanks,” he says, his throat tight. “This is — this is nice.”

“You don’t have to wear them now,” Andromeda says. “You’d look weird, anyway, a kid like you wearing — just thought — well, you know. It’s a gift from the family.”

Sirius does know. Growing up in the Black household means growing up at an accelerated pace, even faster given his status in the family. It means using dinners and gatherings as chances to model trinkets and jewelry that assert the family’s place in wizarding society. He thinks about the holiday dinner that he’ll be forced to attend in several weeks’ time and tries to imagine his what his mother’s face will be when he turns up with gold accents on his dress robes. “Yeah,” he says, grinning at his cousins. Andromeda has a mischievous glint in her eye, and even Narcissa is affording him a thin smile. “Yeah. Thanks again.”

“Any time,” Andromeda says, winking and heading off for the Slytherin table, while Narcissa says, “Happy birthday, Sirius,” and pats him awkwardly on the shoulder before following.

“Well, weirdly, that’s actually nice,” James remarks, once they’re out of earshot.

“Must be feeling charitable,” Sirius says drily. “Can’t get mad at me on my birthday. Wouldn’t reflect well on our family.”

As much as he tries to play off the tie clip and cuff links as a mindless custom in his family — “Everyone gets each other formal wear for birthdays and Christmas, my mum gave me brother a set of dress robes when he turned five because he could finally start attending family dinners,” he says, when Peter’s eyes widen at the sight of the gold ornaments — Narcissa and Andromeda’s gift puts him in a good mood for the rest of the day. Remus shows up in the early afternoon halfway through Charms with an apologetic nod to Professor Flitwick, who nods back and continues lecturing without missing a beat, and Sirius is delighted to see him, even if he does still look a bit pale.

“Happy birthday,” Remus says, when class has ended and they’re on their way back to the common room. “Sorry I missed you at breakfast this morning — how was the Howler?”

“Nah, I’m just glad you’re all right. Howler was excellent. McGonagall took off points for language.”

Remus whirls around to face James on his other side. “I told you so!” Then, to Sirius: “I told him we should have cleared up the language a bit. It’s bad enough for everyone that they had to have _happy birthday Sirius_ screamed in their faces.”

“It was only five points,” James says plaintively. “Well worth it, if you ask me. D’you see Snivellus? He hated it, kept throwing us dirty looks in Herbology this morning.”

“Hm. Wish I’d seen it.” Remus fishes around in his bag and hands Sirius a folded up piece of parchment. “Anyway, I didn’t get a chance earlier, and I don’t want to forget at your party, so now seems like a good time to give you this.”

Sirius flushes. Of course Remus would be the one to write a note, he thinks, glancing at the writing and tucking the parchment into his pocket with the letter from Regulus. “Thanks. Glad you’re back in time for the party.”

The party, organized mostly by James, is the one event Sirius has been looking forward to all day. He hadn’t originally cared about it — spending the day hundreds of miles away from his parents’ oppressive presence is enough of a celebration — but it was Peter’s suggestion to have one, just a small one, and James had jumped on the idea with gusto. Remus had hesitated — “It’s the middle of the week, isn’t it?” — but eventually given in, and it was settled that the first-years would gather in the boys’ dormitory to celebrate after dinner.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a bit of a handful?” Alice asks, with a despairing glance up at the oversized balloons crowding the common room ceiling. (James had inflated them there, looking quite pleased with himself, until Remus pointed out that it might’ve been easier to inflate them all in their dormitory in the first place, and avoid the whole ordeal of trying to move them.) One of the balloons pops with a loud _crack_ and showers red and gold glitter all over the fourth-year standing directly below, who promptly swears and tries to shake it off, to no avail.

“Just trying to one-up the _thrilling_ event my parents would have thrown for me if I was back home,” Sirius says. “Sorry, that glitter’s charmed to stick to anything.”

Alice sighs again, snaps her book shut, and beckons to the fourth-year. “Come on, Madelina, I’ll — _evanesco_.” She frowns at James. “Honestly, with you two together in this House — you’ve made two months feel like a full year. Just try not to do anything that’ll bring the wrath of McGonagall down upon us, won’t you?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” James says, pointing his wand at another balloon above Alice’s head and popping it. Another deluge of glitter flutters down.

“I wish Prefects could take off points,” she huffs. She makes a futile attempt at shaking the glitter out of her hair before waving her wand to clear it. A couple flakes cling onto the the sleeve of her robes, winking as she tries to brush off anything she’s missed. “Anyway, as I was saying — just don’t do anything stupid. The less I hear of it, the better. Now get these balloons out of the common room.”

The party is definitely better than family event Sirius could imagine having at home. Marlene shows up to their dormitory, Mary Macdonald and Lily Evans in tow — Lily looking rather annoyed at being dragged along — bearing a little cake and a box of sparklers. “I had Sam order it in the village,” she explains, setting the cake box on the floor in the centre of the room, “and get the sparklers, too. But don’t tell, they’re from Zonko’s and they’re supposed to be banned. Apparently some idiot in Hufflepuff nearly burnt down their dormitory last year.”

“I can’t believe you had your brother breaking his own set of rules,” Sirius says, watching with delight as Marlene stabs the sparklers into the cake and lights them with her wand. 

“What can I say? He loves a good party, even if he can't attend."

The sparklers send out little flames that shimmer and dance, burning the letters _HAPPY BIRTHDAY_ in the air — and indeed, a spark lands on Peter’s bed, which triggers a few minutes of frantic wand-waving and yelping until Lily Evans marches to the bathroom for a glass of water and puts out the flame with an exasperated sigh, muttering something that sounds like, “ _Stupid wizards can't_ _do anything without magic_.” Sirius splits up the cake eight ways. “Take the extra slice to your brother, Marlene,” he says, “it’s thanks to him I’ve got a cake in the first place, anyway.”

“Oh, he’ll be pleased. Thanks in advance. Remus, have a slice, go on.”

Sirius glances over at Remus, who’s sitting on his bed, smiling but obviously tired. “Yeah, go on,” he says, holding the last slice out. “Or else we’ll have to find someone else to take it; it won’t keep.”

“You go ahead and have an extra slice,” Remus says. “I’m not hungry.”

Sirius raises his eyebrows. “You barely ate at dinner! You look like you could do with it, too. Come on, I’ll be terribly insulted otherwise.”

Remus rolls his eyes but finally takes the cake. “Fine,” he mutters, picking at it. “Thanks.”

Sirius beams up at him, then around the room at the rest of his friends. He tries to imagine what he would be doing on his birthday if he was in Slytherin; he might as well be back home, he thinks, if he has to celebrate with people like stupid Cuthbert Selwyn or Lucius Malfoy. There’d be very little difference between a party put together by Narcissa consisting of the entire Slytherin House and a party thrown by his parents to find him a suitable future wife. The only difference would probably be the presence of Snivellus, but Sirius refrains from making a quip about it in Lily’s presence.

James digs out an Exploding Snap deck from his trunk and they get through a round and a half before too few cards remain to have a proper game; Peter dozes off after ten o’clock and Mary and Marlene get a good laugh out of drawing on his face. The girls leave close to midnight — “So soon?” James asks in mock disappointment, to which Lily scowls and exclaims, “We still have class tomorrow, Potter!” — and then it’s just the four of them, James and Sirius and Peter lying about on the floor, and Remus still perched on his bed, looking remarkably poised despite the glitter scattered all over his lap and the rest of the room.

“You look dead tired,” Sirius says, when James disappears into the bathroom. “You know, you could’ve just checked out like Pete over there.”

Remus smiles mildly and shakes his head. “I already missed half of the day,” he says. “Figured staying up was the least I could do.”

“Well, thanks. Made my birthday that much better.”

“I’m glad.”

James comes out of the bathroom and immediately flings himself upon his bed, mumbling something about how it’ll be awful tomorrow when they have to wake up, and Sirius immediately seizes his chance to lock himself in the bathroom and have a few moments to himself to read his letters. He slides down onto the floor, back against the wall, and pulls out Regulus’ first.

_Sirius —_

_Happy birthday. Hope this arrives on time because I’ve left it till the last minute and Mother has already sent Hecuba with her gift. In case you were wondering, she’s stopped yelling about your Sorting. Now she just complains about you to that portrait of Great-Great-Grandfather Phineas, that’s who told her. Anyway, sorry I couldn’t get you a gift, Mother and Father won’t let me out of the house, but I hope you have an excellent day. I expect Andromeda and Narcissa will do something, and I bet it’ll be better than having dinner at the Malfoy Manor like we did last year. Can’t wait for next year when I go and then we can celebrate together._

_Please write me back. It’s absolutely awful having nothing to do in this house besides getting shouted at by Mother and Father._

_— Regulus_

Sirius skims the letter and then reads it again. _Great-Great-Grandfather Phineas_ , so that’s who ratted to Walburga. He should’ve thought of it sooner, he supposes, but he’s never tried very hard to keep track of the family tree.

A knock sounds on the door and Sirius stuffs Regulus’ letter back in his pocket. “Just a second,” he calls, unfolding the parchment from Remus. It’s short, just a couple of lines, but there’s a tricky charm on it that sends little animated fireworks across the top of the page, and Sirius finds himself smiling again. _Sirius_ , the note reads, _I hope you’re having, or you’ve had, a lovely birthday. I’m feeling a bit ill while writing this, so I hope I don’t miss out on much and I can be there for at least part of the day. I also hope you know I’m very glad you happened upon the train carriage I was in, and that we were both Sorted into Gryffindor, because I think you’re quite nice to have as a friend. Happy birthday. Enjoy the fireworks. Remus._

“Trust Remus to write a note like this,” Sirius mutters to himself, admiring the way the ink dances across the parchment and thinking about how Remus stayed awake long enough to make up for missing the first half of the day. He folds the parchment up again and stares at it, sitting in the palm of his hand, imagining once more what it would be like if he were in Slytherin, wondering who’d write him such a sincere note. _Not Snivellus_ , he thinks, _that'_ _s for sure_.

The knock sounds again and Remus’ voice comes through in a whisper. “Sirius? Can I use the toilet?”

Sirius opens the door. “Go ahead,” he says, jumping back in surprise when Remus pushes past him and falls to his knees in front of the toilet, where he promptly begins vomiting. “Blimey, what’s wrong with you?”

“Told you I wasn’t hungry,” Remus chokes out, his eyes visibly watering but his voice a touch amused. “Still feeling a bit ill. Sorry to waste your cake.”

“You idiot,” Sirius says affectionately, closing the bathroom door again and crouching down to rub Remus’ back. “No matter. ’S long as you enjoyed it while it lasted.”

Remus retches for what feels like the most comically awkward five minutes of Sirius’ life, then gags once more and then falls back weakly against the wall. “Sorry,” he says again, eyes closed. “I know that was gross.”

Sirius flushes the toilet and hauls Remus to his feet. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.” He hands Remus a washcloth to wipe his mouth. “And for what it’s worth, I’m glad we were Sorted into Gryffindor, too. Imagine if I hadn’t been. Imagine if I had to save Snivellus from being sick.” 

Remus huffs a tiny laugh. “I see you read my birthday message.”

“Of course I did. And, yeah — you have no idea how glad I am to be in this House with you, Remus.”


	5. iv. the intrusion

_how wonderful it is, to be silent with someone._

— kurt tucholsky

**_december 1971_ **

In the initial seconds after Remus opens his eyes, body pressed to the splintering floor of the shack and not yet aware of the night it’s endured, his mind races: first with the knowledge that he is alive, then with the relief of knowing what he is. _These are my hands_. _These are my limbs. This heart is mine_. _I am human_ , he thinks, pulling himself into a sitting position. _My body is human_. 

He glances at the trapdoor; it’s scratched up around the edges but it’s secure, unbreached. _Everyone else is safe_. _No one has been hurt_. He checks over his naked body, wiping a finger through the jellied blood around the edges of every new scratch and gash, counting the new bruises. It’s a checklist, a way to make his brain start working again. _Pain is good_ , he says to himself as he presses down on the bruises over his ribs, just to see how much they can hurt. _Pain is human_.

He dresses himself again, every motion mechanical and grinding and taking a thousand years, the fabric of his shirt rubbing painfully against the raw wounds on his back. Madam Pomfrey comes through the trapdoor with her wand out, but her grip relaxes when she sees him sitting on the rickety old bed, shirt hanging open to expose the latest set of claw marks, an ugly trio of lines that wraps from the base of his throat to his left hip. She offers him her arm wordlessly and he grips it, leans on her all the way up to the castle, shivering the whole way.

“That’s a nasty one,” she says finally, when they’re back in the Hospital Wing and she has her tray of potions and infusions laid out in front of her. “Come on, shirt off, let me have a look at it.”

She cleans him up and tells him under no circumstances should he be in class today, not after he’s lost so much blood, and Remus can’t really think of anything to say in protest. He could sleep for days. The new wound is an ugly addition to the scars he already has, a timeline of the last six and a half years since the attack; he looks at the first set of scars, puckered and white on his stomach, and wonders if they’ll still be there, as visible as they are now, in another six years.

“I think you should rest now,” Madam Pomfrey says, drawing the curtains around his bed and holding out a flask that Remus recognizes as the blessed, blessed potion for dreamless sleep. Sleep free of nightmares is a liberty he doesn’t have at home — and one he won’t be able to enjoy at the next moon when he’s home for the holidays, he realises, counting the days — so he takes the flask, raises it in a toast to Madam Pomfrey, and downs it in one.

**//**

**_mid-december 1971, holiday break_ **

Walburga Black wastes no time in locating her son on the platform, and Sirius feels her presence descending upon him like a cloud before he’s even seen her. When he does spot her, standing ten feet away with a wide berth as if she’s repelling everyone else around her, he groans inwardly and says his goodbyes to his friends. 

“Blimey, she looks like a barrel of laughs,” James mutters to Peter. “Well, bye then, Sirius. See you in a couple of weeks.”

Sirius raises his hand in a begrudging farewell before trudging over to his mother, hoping he doesn’t look as miserable as he feels. He casts one last glance over his shoulder; several metres away, Remus has been ensconced in the embrace of a sweet-looking woman whom Sirius assumes is his mother. A man who looks startlingly like Remus stands next to them, tired but smiling, and Sirius watches as Remus pulls away from his mother to hug his father. _Must be nice_ , Sirius thinks, wishing he could be greeted by anything except his mother’s folded arms and piercing gaze.

Remus turns around just as Sirius reaches his own mother. _Bye_ , he mouths, waving once. 

_Bye_ , Sirius mouths back. He steels himself and turns to face his mother.

“Sirius,” she says, the corners of her lips already drawing into a frown.

“Mother.”

“Don’t give me that tone,” his mother snaps. She holds out her arm and Sirius takes it, taking a deep breath. “Come.”

They land on the top step outside the front door, Walburga looking barely ruffled and Sirius with his hands on his knees, heaving. The memory of Remus retching into the toilet flits through Sirius’ mind and he suppresses the smile that tugs at his lips before his mother can see and ask what it’s about. 

“Pathetic,” Walburga says, yanking his arm and dragging him inside.

12 Grimmauld Place is exactly as Sirius remembers it: dark and suffocating, with walls that make him feel as if he’s always being watched and a sort of gloom that weighs like a stone in the pit of his stomach. He hasn’t missed it, and the way the stairs creak angrily when he heads up to his room suggests the house hasn’t missed him either. 

“Sirius.”

Sirius’ head jerks up and he steps back a few feet when he sees his father standing in front of him on the landing. “Hello, Father,” he says, trying not to sigh.

Orion regards him with a hard-to-read expression for a moment. “Go clean yourself up,” he says finally. “Your mother and I would like to see you in the library.”

Exasperation washes over Sirius — he knew it would’ve been too much to expect his parents to forget about his disastrous Sorting — but he nods wordlessly. At least he has a chance to say hello to Regulus, maybe even get an idea of what to expect.

“They’re not angry anymore,” Regulus says when asked, perched at the foot of Sirius’ bed, feet swinging back and forth. “At least, I don’t think they are.”

Sirius frowns. “There’s a difference between ‘not yelling anymore’ and ‘not angry anymore.’ Which is it?”

Regulus screws up his face, a look Sirius recognises from when they were younger and Walburga would try to teach them fundamentals of magic; he would scrunch his nose up when asked a question and look around as if the portraits would give him the answer. “Not yelling anymore,” he says, his voice rising in a question at the end. “I’m not sure. They don’t talk about it in front of me.”

Sirius is privately glad that if his parents are still angry, they’re at least keeping it to themselves. The last thing he wants is for Regulus to have to pick sides if he’s caught up in the argument. He can only hope that Cygnus and Druella haven’t said anything if they’ve been over for dinner.

“Well, wish me luck,” he says, pausing in the doorway of his bedroom to wave mockingly at his brother. Regulus only flops backwards onto the bed, legs still dangling off the end.

His parents are so still when he walks into the library and looks around that he nearly doesn’t see them. His father is seated at the desk, hands folded together on top, and his mother stands behind him, so stern and perfectly posed that Sirius is reminded of the pictures of Muggle paintings he’s seen in Alice Fortescue’s Muggle Studies textbook. “Mother,” he says, inclining his head towards Walburga. “Father.”

“Sit down, Sirius,” his father says. Sirius does as he’s told. “We’d like to speak to you.”

Sirius nods. “Yes.”

“Don’t interrupt your father,” Walburga snaps.

The familiar irritation Sirius feels when interacting with his parents, absent for so long while he was away, flares up again. “I thought he was finished with his sentence!”

Walburga’s eyes flash dangerously, and Sirius bites his tongue. His father tries again. “Your mother and I were not pleased to hear about your Sorting,” he says grimly. 

“I know,” Sirius agrees. “I got your Howler.”

Walburga’s nostrils flare and she closes her eyes. Sirius watches with slight amusement as she sucks in a sharp breath and tries to compose herself. His fun is short-lived, however; Orion stands up with such conviction that he nearly bumps into the desk, and several rolls of parchment rock back and forth near the edge. “Don’t give us cheek,” he says. “You should know just how upsetting it was for your mother to hear what happened. She has put a lot into preparing you for school, Sirius. We both have. You might as well have spit in our faces.”

Sirius tries to contain his sigh. _Score one for Narcissa_ , he thinks, remembering her impassioned lecture back in October. _Your mother and father have done a lot for you_! “I didn’t ask the Sorting Hat to put me in Gryffindor,” he says, for what feels like the thousandth time. “I assumed I’d be in Slytherin.”

“ _Assuming_ you’d be in Slytherin isn’t the same as _committing_ to being in Slytherin,” Walburga says.

“Well, I didn’t know that, did I? Anyway, it’s too late now, I don’t see why we have to keep going over this. Andromeda and Narcissa have already — ”

“Andromeda and Narcissa are not responsible for your younger brother,” Orion interrupts, sitting back down. “You’re right, we can’t change anything about where you are now. But your Sorting is clearly the consequence of some mistakes, either by yourself, your mother, or myself.”

Dread settles in Sirius’ stomach as he glances back up at his parents. He has an idea of where this preamble is leading: both his mother and father are watching him with hawk-like stares as if sizing up a duelling opponent for weaknesses. “That’s what this is?” he says, a little incredulous. “You want to see where you went wrong with me so that you can fix up Regulus in time for next September? The Hat has a mind of its own; you can’t control it.”

“But you can influence it,” Walburga corrects, her eyes narrowed and calculating. Sirius finds himself trying not to squirm under her threatening gaze. He braces himself for what’s next. “What did you say to the Hat?”

“Nothing!”

Walburga bristles. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m _not_ ,” Sirius says, but then his father stares straight at him, unblinking, and he doesn’t have time to close his own eyes before his father is invading his mind, sifting through the last three and a half months of lessons and midnight escapades with his friends and conversations with Narcissa and Andromeda. The memory of the train to school in September resurfaces, loud and raucous, and Sirius squeezes his eyes shut, clenches his fists reflexively. _Stop_ , _stop_ , _stop_ — 

Orion sits back in his chair, eyes still glinting with the threat of another intrusion. “So you think this is a joke,” he says coolly. “You thought it would be funny — _amusing_ , didn’t you? — if you _broke tradition_ and were Sorted somewhere besides Slytherin.”

“No,” Sirius gasps, still reeling. His head throbs unpleasantly. “That’s not what I meant — I just meant that — ”

“Do you take your mother and myself for idiots?” Orion says quietly. “Do you think I didn’t hear the way you spoke about your cousins, to strangers on a train, no less?”

“They’re not strangers.”

“Oh, we know that.” Sirius glances up at his mother, who folds her arms and gazes at him with a look in her eyes that is dangerously close to the one in Orion’s. “They’re not strangers anymore, no thanks to your performance with the Sorting Hat.”

“ _What_? What performance? I didn’t say anything to it, it — ”

“Don’t lie to us!” Walburga repeats, her voice harsh and shrill. “What _future_ was it looking at?”

“How am I supposed to know? I — ”

“Don’t take that tone with your mother,” Orion interrupts, “or I’ll — ”

“Read through my thoughts again? You’re welcome to. I don’t think you’ll find anything you didn’t find the first time,” Sirius says hotly, face still flushed with the shame of having his memories so flagrantly picked apart by his parents. “Are we done?”

Colour rises in both his parents’ cheeks, but finally his father’s jaw unclenches and he nods. “Go to your room."

Sirius doesn’t need to be told twice; he bolts from his chair and races for the stairs, taking them two at a time. Regulus, still lying on his brother’s bed, rolls over and looks up at him expectantly when Sirius bursts in.

“They’re _still_ on about it?” Regulus guesses, eyes wide.

Sirius nods. “You’d better watch yourself. Mum and Dad are going to really crack down on you. They can’t afford to have another screw-up.”

“You’re not a screw-up.”

Sirius laughs — the first time since coming home — and ruffles his brother’s hair. Affection bubbles up within him; it’s so him, so _Regulus_ , to think the best and automatically offer reassurance. He’s so _naïve_ , Sirius thinks, it probably has never occurred to their parents to use Legilimency against him, not when he’s so innocent and devoid of secrets. “You need to wisen up,” Sirius says, throwing himself down on his bed next to Regulus. “You know just as well as I do that my first term was a disaster for our parents. Didn’t you have to sit in at any dinner with Uncle Cygnus?”

“Just one,” Regulus says, “back in September. Uncle Alphard was there, too. They talked about your Sorting.”

Sirius blinks and sits up. “Uncle Alphard was here?” He’s always liked Uncle Alphard, even if his obligatory appearances at family functions are few and far between. “Why?”

Regulus shrugs. “Just visiting, I think. He seemed to think it was funny that you got Sorted wrong, though. No one told him until the night he came for dinner, and he sort of laughed when your parents mentioned it.”

“Bet that didn’t go over so well with Mum.”

“It didn’t. There was an argument.”

“About what? Not just about me, surely — Mum would never let Cygnus and Alphard weigh in on you and me enough to lead to an argument.”

“I don’t know,” Regulus says. “They sent me to my room. I haven’t been allowed down at family dinners or parties since.”

Sirius frowns. “Has Uncle Alphard been back since?”

“No idea. I don’t think so.”

“Shame. I like him. I wish we got to see him more often. Like if he came for the holidays.”

“I got the feeling after the last dinner in September that Mum wouldn’t be inviting him back much.”

“That bad, huh?” Sirius says. Regulus nods. Sirius lies back down, shoulder pressed up against his brother’s. The unpleasant sensation of his father combing through his memories lingers, dirtying his thoughts; he turns his head to look at Regulus, trying to imagine what would happen if it was his brother in Gryffindor, getting his mind dissected over the holidays. The very thought makes his stomach turn uncomfortably.

“Hey, Reg.”

“Don’t _call_ me that.”

“Regulus.” Regulus beams. “Look out for yourself, will you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean — just — just do what Mum and Dad tell you to do, all right?”

“You don’t,” Regulus points out.

Sirius sighs. “I know, but — ” He tries to think of how to explain what Orion and Walburga will do if their second child turns out a failure, but comes up short; Regulus would never understand until it actually happened. “Just — you don’t want to end up like me, okay?”

Regulus meets his gaze, brows drawing together slightly, but his eyes register some sort of understanding, and he nods once, slowly and deliberately. “Okay.”

**//**

**_2 january 1972_ **

Lily spots Severus first as he approaches the top of the hill, shoulders hunched and oversized coat swinging about his ankles. She holds out her thermos of tea, nodding for him to take it, but he shakes his head.

“Aren’t you cold?”

Sev shakes his head again. “Not really,” he says, stomping his feet to clear the pebbled frost off his shoes. “My mum’s put a Warming Charm on my coat.”

“Oh,” Lily says, eyeing the way Sev shoves his hands deeper in his pockets. Fairly certain though she is that he doesn’t have a Warming Charm on his coat, she gives him the benefit of the doubt; his ego looks like it could do with a bit of boosting, anyway. “Must be nice, being able to use magic in the house.”

Sev gives her an odd, pinched look but doesn’t say anything. They stand in awkward silence for a while, Lily squinting up at the barren tree branches above them and Sev at his feet, until finally Lily thinks, _Better get it over with now_ , and asks, as casually as possible, “So how’ve your holidays been? Christmas? New Year’s?”

Sev’s closed-off expression morphs into one of wry displeasure. “Same as always,” he says. “Dull. Better, now I’m with you, though.”

Lily smiles brightly. She likes it best this way. This is the way it was before they went to school: the two of them in each other’s company, pretending they care about the other’s family when really they both know they’re going to run along the riverbank and look for four-leaf clovers and ladybugs. They’ll spend hours in a world with just the two of them, unencumbered by Petunia’s jealousy and Sev’s miserable home life. There’s nothing to hide, no secrets to seal away; they know everything there is to know about each other.

This is what they’re supposed to be, Lily thinks. She has a fleeting memory of how Sev had come looking for her in September and told her to forget about Petunia, how he said _this is it_! and how she believed him. She thinks about how they only share Herbology, how they live in different parts of the castle and eat separately now, how it’s impossible for them to find time to spend with each other. They can’t exist in their own separate world anymore, not when they only ever see each other in the hallways and greenhouses, surrounded by all their other classmates. She feels a bit cheated. Hogwarts, at least not Hogwarts with Sev, isn’t what she thought it would be.

Sev is still smiling at her hopefully, an unspoken _what’ll it be today_? Lily looks about them, trying to think of something to do. “How’s your essay for Transfiguration?”

Sev pulls a face. “Do we have to talk about school?”

“No,” Lily says quickly. “Sorry.”

 _Where did it all go_? She thinks about this time last year, when it snowed unexpectedly and they spent an entire afternoon chasing after each other with levitating snowballs. They built a tiny snowman and made it move. She wants to do that again, but there’s no snow and now they’ve got all that business with the Statute of Secrecy and how they’re not allowed to do magic at home, not yet, at least. What are they supposed to do now? They have nothing in common anymore, not now that she spends most of her time — unwillingly, but still — surrounded by James Potter and his crowd, and Sev has his mates in Slytherin. Unsure of what to do, Lily glances over at Sev. “Want to come over for tea?”

Sev balks. “At yours?”

“Well, yeah. Where else did you think?”

“Dunno.” Sev looks down again, burying his face in the thick lapels of his coat. “Let’s not. Your sister — ”

“Don’t let her get to you, Sev,” Lily says. “She’s just — she can be a little difficult sometimes, but you’re my friend. She knows that.”

“ _Difficult_ ,” Sev repeats, a sneer poisoning his voice, “is an interesting way to say _stuck-up_.”

“She’s not stuck-up!”

“She thinks we’re freaks.”

“We’re — we’re different, that’s all,” Lily says defensively. “It’s hard for her, all right? She’s getting used to it.”

“She’s had two years to get used to it! She’s just a stuck-up Muggle who can’t see how much magic makes our lives — ”

Lily snorts, disgusted. “Do you _hear_ yourself? Don’t call Petunia stuck-up when you’re saying things like that, Sev.” He frowns as if to say _I’m right_ , and Lily pretends she doesn’t see. “You didn’t have to talk to Petunia anyway,” she continues, “but if you don’t want to come over for tea, then fine. What would you like to do?”

Sev shrugs and pulls his coat tighter around himself. “Don’t know.”

 _Typical_ , Lily thinks. _Complaining all the time and then not having any better suggestions_. She tightens her scarf. “Fine. I’m going home, then.”

Sev’s face fall. “Oh, don’t,” he says.

“Well, you don’t want to talk about school, and you don’t want to come to mine, and there’s nothing much else to do,” Lily snaps, gesturing at the barren field of dead grass around them. “And I’m getting hungry, and you think my sister’s stuck-up just because she’s upset that only one of us can do magic. I don't know why I bothered coming out here in the first place. I’ll see you back at school.”

Sev’s eyes widen slightly at her outburst, and there’s a beat of silence before he mumbles something that Lily can’t quite make out. She wants to ask him to repeat it, say it louder, stop hiding behind the muttered side-comments that are so familiar to her now, but something in his eyes tells her she doesn’t want to know what he’s said, so she spins on her heel and storms off. Her eyes sting — with tears or the sharp wind, she’s not sure which — and she tries not to let Sev see as she wipes at them. She thinks she can hear him calling after her, but he doesn’t stop her.

“What’s gotten into _you_?” Petunia says when Lily arrives home and flings herself onto her bed. “Been to see that Snape?”

“His name’s Severus,” Lily says pointedly, but she can’t bring herself to defend him against her sister the way she normally would. She hugs her pillow to her chest and rolls onto her stomach, watching her sister at her desk. _Stuck-up_ , honestly. Half the wizarding world is too stuck-up to care that the Muggle world is outstripping them with their inventions. “What’re you writing?”

“Essay,” Petunia replies without looking up, “for school.”

Lily thinks, guiltily, of her own essay for Professor McGonagall’s class, stuffed in the sheaf of school papers sitting at the top of her trunk. She’d been hoping to talk over them with Sev. “I’ve got a few essays I need to write, too.”

Petunia stops writing for a moment to narrow her eyes at her younger sister. “I didn’t know you wrote essays at that school of yours.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“You’re a bit young to be writing essays for homework, aren’t you?”

“They get harder as we learn more, Tuney. That’s the way school works.”

“I _know_ that’s how school works,” Petunia says. “I just didn’t think there was so much to learn.” She turns back to her desk and continues writing, an effective end to the conversation.

Lily scowls. She finds it ridiculous how insular both sides of her life are: it’s a matter of Petunia’s indifference to — no, her active rejection of — the existence of witchcraft, pitted against Sev’s unfavourable view of what Muggles get up to. “You know,” she says, scooting forward on her knees and leaning over the end of her bed to retrieve her Transfiguration essay, “you could always read over my essay for mistakes when I’ve finished. You’re good at that sort of thing.”

Petunia glares at her. “I don’t think so,” she says bitterly, and, sweeping her own homework off the desk, she sticks her nose in the air and exits the room.

**//**

**_late january 1972_ **

“Where’s Remus gone to?”

James glances up from his star charts for Astronomy, a tuft of hair sticking out where he’s been gripping his head in frustration. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t _what do you mean_ me,” Sirius says, plopping down next to James and taking a look at his homework. “You’ve labelled Cygnus wrong. That’s not enough stars; it’s Cassiopeia.”

James grimaces and scratches out the errors. “Anyway, I thought Remus was with you and Peter. Speaking of, where’s Peter? That’s who you should be asking about — I always think he’s gotten trampled to death by some sixth-years.”

“Peter had a meeting with Slughorn about his last Potions grade. I thought Remus was with you. He said he was going to do some work — I figured you’d be doing these for Astronomy.”

“Well, I haven’t seen him,” James says, glancing around the common room. “Have you checked the dormitory?”

Sirius hums. Remus disappears so frequently that this one is unsurprising; there was a time last term when Remus had gone missing for two days and then turned up looking absolutely miserable at the end of the third day, all pale and morose, explaining, when prompted, that his mother was terribly ill. Oddly enough, Sirius notes, Remus’ mother showed little sign of frailty or illness when he’d seen her on the platform at King’s Cross when they were returning for the winter holidays — at least, not sick enough to warrant having her son sent home in the middle of the week — but then again, Sirius figures, maybe Remus’ mother has some Muggle illness that he doesn’t know much about. Remus himself seems to have inherited a sort of predisposition for headaches and illness as well, judging from the premature creases between his brows where they draw together in irritation and the way he’s constantly rubbing his temples.

“It’s probably nothing,” Peter says, when they’re heading back upstairs after dinner to enjoy the last few hours of their weekend. “I thought he went to the library to finish his work. Maybe he’s still there.”

Sirius frowns. “Evans!” he calls, when he spots the girls climbing in through the portrait hole. “You were all just in the library, weren’t you?”

Lily scowls at him and his friends from across the common room. “Don’t even think about looking at my star chart, Potter. Do your own work.”

“What did _I_ do?” James protests, at the same time Sirius snorts and says, “I think I know enough about constellations to last me several lifetimes without having to copy off anyone."

“What do you want, then?”

“Just wondered if you’d seen Remus in the library.”

Lily shakes her head. “We passed by him on the way there before dinner, though. He must have been on his way to the Hospital Wing — he looked downright dreadful in Charms this afternoon. I thought he was going to pass out on me.”

“He doesn’t eat enough, if you ask me,” Marlene interjects. 

“I’m with you on that one, Mack,” James says lazily from his spot on the floor, yelping when Marlene steps on his fingers.

“Call me _Mack_ one more time and I’ll step on your face,” she calls over her shoulder as she heads up the stairs to the girls’ dormitories. “It’s McKinnon or Marlene. _Mack_ — honestly, of all the nicknames you could pick — ”

Peter stifles a laugh while James pouts and yells for Alice to punish Marlene; Alice says, “No,” flatly without looking up from her homework. Sirius stares out the window at the dark sky with its winking stars and golden moon for several minutes until he’s interrupted by Peter, asking him to look over his charts.

It’s when he’s skimming over Peter’s piss-poor handwriting on his chart of moon phases that the gears in Sirius’ brain grind to a halt. He runs through the dates in his head — the last full moon was on New Year’s Eve, which isn’t terribly difficult to remember, so he’s not quite sure how Peter’s phases all ended up two days behind when they’re actually supposed to happen — and he’s about to correct Peter when he suddenly thinks, _Wait_.

Sirius counts back the days again, scribbling on the back of his own old moon charts. The mysterious trip home. Turning up halfway through the day on his birthday. The start of October, when Remus apparently had to attend his great-aunt Agatha’s funeral. The first weekend of first term. He flips over the parchment to check his calculations once, then twice, then a third time.

“You’re off a bit on your phases,” Sirius says, crossing out and fixing his mistakes on the bottom half of Peter’s charts. He hands the parchment back over, hoping Peter doesn’t bother looking them over.

Peter doesn’t. “Thanks,” he says, and stuffs his homework inside the cover of his textbooks without even checking to see if all the mistakes are fixed.

Sirius nods curtly. Then he turns his head back to the window, and watches as the moon begins to climb through the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my apartment doesn't have ac i am truly Suffering however as anticipated i am cranking out Créatif Content™ in the absence of literally anything else to do. (we're going to ignore my 5 unpacked boxes)
> 
> in chs. 5-6 i fully lost my mind and was like 'it's loving andromeda black hours!' so that's what you have to look forward to lol. as always thanks for reading & i hope everyone's staying safe and well! - ivy x


	6. v. same wound, different shapes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one of my profs assigned like 150 pages of reading for the first day (in a VERY threatening email like ok calm down rosella!!) so i'm gonna be doing that while thinking about how much i love!!! remus lupin!! lol i literally thought about how he befriended that one guy who got bitten by a werewolf at st. mungo's in ootp and nearly lost my mind in the middle of whole foods today, just - can u believe how tender and gentle he is,,

_they could share the same hurt, but in different ways. they bore the same wound, in different shapes._

— aja gabel, _the ensemble_

**_mid-march 1972_ **

Remus’ twelfth birthday is spectacularly better than his last for a number of reasons. The first and most wonderful reason, to him, is that the full moon isn’t for another two and a half weeks, and he can look past the itchy scars and throbbing joints and aching muscles and forget that he is constantly at odds with himself for a day. The second reason, which is as much of a boon as the first, is that he gets to spend his birthday at Hogwarts, surrounded by his friends, a celebration that he wouldn’t have dared to imagine at this time last year. James Transfigures a few loose candy wrappers that have been sitting in the dormitory waste basket for the last several days into balloons, Peter draws obnoxious and inappropriate faces on them, and Sirius directs them to follow Remus about with his wand, so that, by breakfast, everyone is painfully aware that _It’s Remus Lupin’s Fucking Birthday_! today.

Though slightly embarrassed by the balloons hovering over his head in the Great Hall, Remus can’t hide his pleasure at being with his friends, and he flushes bright red every time someone wishes him a happy birthday. Frank Longbottom finds the balloons crass but amusing and spends most of his breakfast lightly hinting to Sirius that there exists a charm to make the balloons follow Remus around even without the direction of a wand; Alice Fortescue only slaps him on the wrist and says, “ _Please_ don’t give them any ideas.” Marlene tells Remus to “have a great day” with an expression that clearly indicates he’s going to return to his dormitory later in the day to find a surprise party, and even Lily smiles warmly and wishes him well with a genuine smile. His parents send him a gift via the family’s aging tawny owl, who not only delivers the package but stays for a few minutes, hopping about on the dining table, until Remus pokes it and says, “Go home,” and one look at the parcel suggests it’s another book or two.

“Hurry up and open it,” Sirius says, when Remus neatly wedges his knife under the tape and peels apart the wrapping paper. “It’s not as if you don’t already know what it is.”

“Can’t you have a bit of patience?” Peter says despairingly, at the same time that Remus says, “Yes, but I don’t know what _kind_ of book it is.” Sirius treats them both to a wounded puppy type of look and gestures impatiently for Remus to continue unwrapping his gift.

There are two books, one from each of his parents — a second-hand copy of _Much Ado About Nothing_ , full of thoughtful inscriptions and annotations from a previous owner whose identity will likely forever remain a mystery, and a new copy of _Against the Dark Arts_ : _A Comprehensive History of Defensive Spells_. Remus recognizes his father’s handwriting on the inside cover of _Against the Dark Arts_ , scrawled in two neat lines: _Happy birthday to my favourite son. Enjoy the read_! 

“You know, Shakespeare was a wizard,” Sirius says, when he spots _Much Ado About Nothing_. “So were a lot of his actors. That’s how Richard Burbage memorised all those lines so quickly. Memory Charms and all that.”

“You’re making that up,” Remus says, taking the play back from Sirius and flipping through the pages again. “How do you know?”

“It’s true. My mother made a point of letting us know which historical figures were magicfolk.” Sirius rolls his eyes. “She told us if we ever _shamelessly_ engaged in ‘Muggle entertainment _of that sort_ ’ like that, we’d be disowned.”

James laughs. “I take it your mum’s not a fan, then? Bless her.”

“Well, I can’t read that stuff to begin with,” Peter says. “How d’you understand it?”

Remus shrugs. “My mum used to read some of his other plays sometimes, like at dinner. She likes it. Funny, I never knew he was a wizard. She’d love to hear about it.”

Surrounded by his friends and the rest of the House calling out their customary birthday greetings as they pass by, Remus finds breakfast an altogether very happy affair. It’s so very different from spending his birthdays with his parents in their isolated cottage, so _wonderfully_ different from the sheltered bubble in which he’s grown up, that not even Professor McGonagall descending upon their table and popping his balloons can ruin his mood.

**//**

As with Sirius’ birthday, James and Peter take it upon themselves to organise a small party in their dormitory in the evening after dinner. They invite the girls, who don’t look half as nonplussed at being asked to come celebrate Remus’ birthday as they did when it was Sirius turning twelve last November, and Marlene, Mary, and Lily dutifully turn up at their dormitory after dinner. Mary’s got a box of something covered in foil that she unwraps once they’re inside, revealing a sizable stack of ginger and chocolate biscuits — “Got it from the kitchens — don’t ask me how I got in, Potter, that’s for me to know and for you to wonder,” she says — that makes Remus think longingly of his mother’s own baking. 

“We should have done this yesterday,” Sirius says at about a quarter past eleven, glancing over at Peter, who’s lying on the floor looking half-asleep. “We wouldn’t have class the next day, and we could’ve stayed up ’til midnight to wait for your birthday, Remus.”

James sits up. “Blimey, you’re right. You should’ve thought of this earlier — never mind, we can sleep through History of Magic.” 

Sirius takes another biscuit and breaks it into pieces, tossing it up in the air and catching it with his mouth. “Never mind,” Sirius says, holding his audience captive, “as long as Remus has had a good time, that’s all that really matters, isn’t it — hey!” 

Remus swats a chunk of biscuit out of the air; it bounces off Sirius’ cheek and falls into his lap. “You missed,” he says cheerfully, picking it up and eating it before Sirius can say anything else. “Anyway, I’ve had a great day, thanks to all of you.”

Lily beams at him. “Anything for you, Remus,” she says, “seeing as you’re the least likely to lose us points in the House Cup.”

“Hey, he gets us in plenty of trouble,” Sirius cries, but his protests fall on deaf ears.

“You corrupt him.”

“No, he’s plenty terrible on his own, thanks,” James says, snickering, and Remus knows he’s thinking about how the four of them went sneaking about several nights ago and nearly got caught by Mrs. Norris, Filch’s dreaded cat, whilst looking for secret passages. “Look, I think his silence speaks for itself.”

At the implication of his complicity in James and Sirius’ wrongdoings, Lily glares pointedly at Remus, but there’s no real harm in her eyes. Remus thinks maybe her birthday present to him is that she’s restraining herself against the usual quips and barbs against his friends. She tolerates them, at the very least, and even says _good night_ in a very genuine way when the girls leave at close to midnight, Mary complaining that it’ll be difficult to wake up tomorrow morning. Peter promptly crawls into bed and murmurs, “Happy birthday Remus, see you tomorrow,” one last time before his breathing immediately turns into his usual tiny, rasping snores. 

Remus has just drawn the curtains about his bed and cracked open his copy of _Much Ado About Nothing_ — there’s a fun series of notes in the front cover that suggests this copy used to belong to a student from the Muggle university near his home — when Sirius pokes his head in. “Hi,” he says cheekily, grinning. “Mind if I join?”

Remus pulls himself into a cross-legged position and sets his book aside, indicating the empty spot at the foot of the bed for Sirius to sit. On any other night, he might say no and kick at Sirius’ face until he retreated, but he’s still so awash with the joy of having friends for the first time in his life — real ones, not just his parents — that he wants to prolong the night as long as he can. 

“I thought about writing you a birthday note,” Sirius says, “you know, like you did for me on my birthday. But it would have just been the same things you wrote, so I figured I’d just tell you.”

Remus flushes, remembering the parchment he’d scribbled over less than an hour before his imprisonment in the Shrieking Shack last November. Never having received much in the way of friendly affection or mail — aside from the occasional contact with his extended family and his Hogwarts letter — he hadn’t been sure if people did things like that, wrote stuff like that in notes to each other. “It’s okay,” he says. “I know. You told me after I threw up, remember?”

“I know I did,” Sirius says, “but I’m just — you know, saying it again. You’re all right for someone my family has always told me to hate.”

A moment of confused panic seizes Remus’ heart before he realises that Sirius is referring to his status as a half-blood, not his lycanthropy, the knowledge of which is still safely confined to himself and his teachers. He smiles wanly. “Thanks. You’re all right for someone who comes from a family that’s sworn to hate half the wizarding population.”

Sirius beams, a childish glow on his face, visible even in the dim light. “You’re really something, you know that?” he says, locking eyes with Remus.

Remus blanches. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Dunno. It’s just — you talk like you’re ages older than you are. You’re all careful, and — just — sometimes, the way you say things and do things — you see everything, don’t you?”

Remus isn’t sure if this is supposed to be taken as a compliment or not. Sirius has no way of knowing that this is how he’s been forced to grow up, that being careful and perceptive beyond your years comes with the territory of being a child werewolf, of having the right to be stupid and innocent taken away. “That’s coming from you,” he finally says, astutely aware of Sirius’ own high-class upbringing at this point. He’s seen the tailored robes Sirius wears, the gifts his cousins got him.

Sirius shakes his head. “That’s different, though. My parents are breeding me. I don’t have a choice.” There’s a beat of silence as Sirius’ gaze drops — the realisation of the cynicism of his statement hangs awkwardly in the air — and then Sirius looks quickly back at Remus. “Sorry, I don’t mean — you know — that you don’t — I don’t know about your parents.”

“No, I get it,” Remus says, and he means it, because he does know what it’s like to not have a choice, even if Sirius is right and it is different. He tries to imagine his own mother, sweet-faced and full of Muggle baking recipes that she refuses to expedite with magic, sending a Howler about his Sorting; or his father, exhausted from the sleepless nights spent in front of his bedroom door, wand out in case the unthinkable happens, but always smiling in the mornings nonetheless, frowning at him over Christmas dinner because he’s failed to live up to some unnamed expectations. 

He knows what Sirius means: they’re older than James and Peter, and it’s more than just a matter of calendar dates. Peter whines about his parents — their constant letters, demanding to know what exactly is going on in every corner of his life, the way his mother always sends clippings from _The Daily Prophet_ of gossip and other random muck, the way his dad is always a bit weird when it comes to the existence of magic, despite being a wizard himself — but underneath it all, he loves them, receives every letter with excitement and dutifully responds in excruciating detail every time. His letters are lengthy but always cheerful, not like Remus’, whose letters home are written covertly and shielded from sight, carefully crafted so as to balance the more gruesome details of his transformations against lighthearted nonchalance. And James — Remus wonders if James has ever experienced a negative emotion in his life.

Remus watches Sirius for a few seconds, the way he fists the duvet in one hand as if he can physically wrestle with the idea of sharing a secret. He knows Sirius had been dreading returning home for the holidays back in December; Sirius returned in January still every bit as careless and raucous as before, but with a look in his eye that betrayed how shaken he was to Remus. It was a look Remus knows because he sees it every day in himself when he looks at himself in the mirror, a look of dread and worry, a slightly desperate desire to protect some secret. He wants to ask now — _what is it_? _what are you hiding_? — but he restrains himself, having grown all too familiar with the sensation of being irritatingly plied with questions in the last few months. “My parents are fine, for the record,” Remus says finally, awkwardly, if only to fill the silence. “I know I don’t talk about them much, but they’re — we’re on good terms.”

Sirius snorts. “Must be nice,” he says drily, in a bitter sort of voice; not angry, just envious. “I figured from the gifts they sent you. They know you.”

Remus nods. It’s odd to think about a family where parents don’t know their child, but he supposes that’s how the Blacks are. “Well, thanks for the party,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the curtains, outside of which still linger a few remnants of their night. “And — in general, just a good day. Even if you didn’t write me a note.”

“I mean it, though,” Sirius says. His eyes shine in the darkness, grave and genuine. “I really do. I’m glad we’re in the same House. It’s not just about screwing with my parents — even though it’s a plus — but — you’re good people, you know? I’m glad I met you and James and Peter.”

Remus swallows. “Me too,” he says. “I don’t think I’ve ever had real friends before this.”

Sirius nods in a way that says _I understand_. _I understand what it’s like to watch the rest of the kids my age play in the neighbourhood from afar_ , his face says. _I understand what it’s like to have to ask permission to know someone._ He says so much, understands so much, looks so earnest, that Remus feels his breath catch in his throat, teeters on the edge of spilling his secret because this is someone who knows, who understands his loneliness in the same way Remus understands what it’s like to grow up too fast and without wanting to. But then Sirius smiles in a little way that says, _Let’s not_ , and Remus can’t help but feel a little relieved as his friend swings his legs over the edge of his bed and whispers, “Happy birthday, Remus. Good night,” before disappearing.

**//**

**_mid-april 1972_ **

Hecuba, Orion and Walburga’s terrifyingly large eagle owl, has been in the Black family for longer than Sirius has, and as such, Sirius considers her an older sibling in much the same way he treats his cousins as older sisters. The main difference between Hecuba and Bellatrix — or Andromeda or Narcissa, for that matter — is that Sirius is in direct competition with Hecuba for his mother’s affections. Despite constantly berating them, Walburga, whose pettiness is amongst the few traits Sirius thinks he’s unfortunately inherited, can always be counted on to side with her own children against Uncle Cygnus’ when it comes down to it. As a result, Sirius has never really worried that his mother might care more for his very perfect cousins than she does for him, but he knows that despite their disadvantages when it comes to primogeniture, Walburga Black has always wanted a daughter to mold into a miniature version of herself, and he suspects she’s found a suitable substitute in Hecuba.

Sirius isn’t sure if his mother always favoured Hecuba over both her human sons, but when she started choosing favourites is irrelevant to him now. He simply detests the owl and, now that he’s at Hogwarts, finds her an ugly reminder that his parents are still watching him, even if he is more than five hundred miles away. 

So when Hecuba makes a spontaneous appearance in the Great Hall one morning, landing on the dining table in front of Sirius and nearly knocking over the toast rack as she folds her massive wings in, Sirius’ instinct is to throw his fork at her giant unblinking eyes. He elects to ignore her instead, striking up a conversation with Peter so he can avoid having to look at the owl, but then Hecuba pecks his hand and neatly drops a letter by his plate.

Sirius freezes at the sight of the folded parchment and wax seal, emblazoned with the crest of Lestrange family. He glances at the Slytherin table: he spots Narcissa next to Lucius Malfoy, already reading something in her hands, and then he sees his Uncle Cygnus’ owl in front of Andromeda, who frowns slightly at the sight of her letter but pockets it without opening it and shoos the owl away. 

“What’s that, then?” Peter asks, shaking Sirius out of his reverie. “Your mum never sends you anything.”

“I’d rather she didn’t, if this is what I think it is,” Sirius says darkly. He fiddles with the parchment, thick and heavy in his hands. “I don’t like this.”

James catches sight of the seal on the envelope, takes one look at Sirius, follows his gaze across the Hall to the table where Andromeda and Narcissa Black are seated, and puts it all together in a matter of seconds. “Blimey, mate,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “I take it your crazy old cousin’s getting married, then?”

“I’m sure she’s not really _crazy_ ,” Remus says diplomatically.

Both James and Sirius turn to look at him like he’s mad. “She must be, if she’s voluntarily marrying into the Lestrange family,” James says, eyeing the envelope warily. “No offence, Sirius.”

“None taken.” Sirius peels the seal off and opens the letter to reveal that it is indeed a notice from both the Lestrange family and the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, announcing their impending union via the marriage of Rodolphus and Bellatrix. He wrinkles his nose in distaste. The least his uncle could have done was pick a man with half a brain — or failing that, Sirius thinks, with a scornful glare at Lucius Malfoy, someone whose company Bellatrix would actually be likely to enjoy. Sirius’ limited memories of Rodolphus Lestrange mostly involve the man and his brother getting a little too threatening after a few drinks, or the incident at a holiday function a few years ago in which Andromeda hexed them for letting their hands wander a little too freely. Sirius tries to imagine a breakfast conversation between his neurotic cousin and thick-headed Rodolphus Lestrange, and immediately cringes at the very thought. “I suspect my mother wants me to know now, with Andromeda and Narcissa, before half of Slytherin House gets their invites.”

Peter’s eyes widen in comical horror. “You can’t be expected to go to a wedding with that many people from here,” he says.

Sirius does a mental roll call, matching up names and faces from the Slytherin table with people he’s been forced to socialise with at pure-blood functions before. “I’m willing to place bets on who at this school will receive invitations through their families,” he says, holding up his hands and ticking off his fingers. “Lucius Malfoy, for one. The Carrows, obviously — their parents and my father are good friends — Cuthbert Selwyn, whom Narcissa is obsessed with for some reason, the Greengrass twins, the Dolohovs, Lucinda Zabini, I wouldn’t be surprised if Slughorn gets one, I should think even Shacklebolt from our year will be — ”

“Point made,” Remus says, cutting Sirius off. “We get it. It’s about to be the event of the year.”

“Of the decade, I should think,” says James. “I wouldn’t be surprised if I saw this in _The Prophet_. Sirius’ family is a big deal.”

Sirius snorts. “Don’t give Bellatrix that much credit; we both know the event of the decade will be my own wedding.”

“Well, I hope it’s a comfort to know we’ll all be there to muck it up a bit.”

Sirius snickers. He tries to picture himself getting married in ten years, pleased with the mental image of James turning up, wild-haired and bright-eyed, with Peter, swallowed by too-big dress robes, and Remus, scratched up and battered, in tow. His parents would have a fit. “You know what?” He grins at James. “It really is.”

**//**

**_late may 1972_ **

The full moon in May comes about right as courses start veering into revision period, and for this, Remus is actually grateful. For once, his friends don’t think much of his moodiness, chalking it up to the stress of their first exams that are just peeking around the corner, only a few weeks away. Sirius, of course, approaches revision with careless ease, cracking jokes about the position of Uranus during Astronomy and accepting all the extra work Flitwick assigns them with nothing more than a shrug and a grin. James is the same — entirely unperturbed by the volume of what’s expected of them — although he complains far more than Sirius just for the sake of getting a rise out of McGonagall — and Peter takes to spending most of his time begging the rest of them to help him with material from each class. 

But for the temporarily relief it affords him in terms of not having to lie to his friends, Remus finds himself, embarrassingly enough, intimidated by the work facing him. Having spent most of his life in a state of chronic pain and under the watchful protection of his father, his primary school experience is non-existent, and he’s never felt any sort of academic pressure before. Though he’s practically memorised half their textbooks, and he’s certainly nowhere as hopeless as Peter when it comes to execution, it’s impossible to ignore the full moons book-ending his exams. He pores over his planner, working out just how long he can afford to feel miserable after the first moon and when he can start up again before the next, praying that he doesn’t get terribly injured and Madam Pomfrey lets him out of the Hospital Wing quickly. 

Unfortunately, his luck being what it is, Remus wakes up Monday morning on the cold, hard floor of the Shrieking Shack with a pounding headache and a sticky sensation down one side that suggests his night was not as peaceful as he hoped it would be. Eyes still closed, he rolls onto his back and presses his fingers to the bloody gash along his ribs with a wince; when he tries to sit up, bile rises so quickly in his throat that his eyes burn with the effort of trying not to vomit on himself. He eyes the bathroom door in the corner desperately, wondering if he can manage to crawl over, at least make it to the toilet, if not the sink, and has just begun a painstaking journey on his hands and knees when the bolt on the other side of the trapdoor slides open with a loud _clunk_ and he hears Madam Pomfrey gasp.

“Remus,” she says, and that’s how Remus knows how bad he must really look, because he’s always been _Mr. Lupin_ to her. “Stop moving. Sit.”

He does, promptly collapsing back onto the floor — he cries out involuntarily when he lands on his fresh wound — and begins retching violently. Madam Pomfrey is there in seconds, warm, steady hands on his shaking shoulders, tutting sympathetically and pushing him into an upright position when he’s finished spitting out stomach acid. “It’s all right,” she says soothingly, handing him a flask and directing him to drink. “Take your time.”

Remus mumbles a _thank you_ as he downs the potion and casts about for his clothes. _Take your time_ or not, he’s not particularly keen on sitting about totally exposed in front of Madam Pomfrey. She’s seen enough of his worst moments.

Madam Pomfrey won’t hear of him staying in the Hospital Wing for less than a day — “That wound isn’t going to heal itself, so you’d better stop asking,” she says, when Remus asks her if he can leave mid-afternoon — so Remus is faced with the ugly fact that he has to miss Astronomy and will have to borrow notes from one of his friends, which will inevitably lead to questions. He considers asking Lily, since she’s always been more than happy to take his tepid responses about where he’s been at face value, but Sirius has always been top of the class in Astronomy, and Remus figures he needs all the help he can get to make up for missing class so close to exams. 

It’s actually Sirius who approaches Remus first, though, two days after the full moon; he wakes to the sound of Madam Pomfrey’s stern voice telling someone off just outside the curtains around his bed. “Mr. Lupin isn’t feeling well,” she says firmly, and Remus is grateful for her authority on the matter.

Sirius isn’t deterred. “I’ve just come to tell him what he’s missed. I’ve got class notes,” he protests, his voice growing fainter as Madam Pomfrey ushers him towards the doors. “He didn’t turn up for Astronomy last night — ”

“Your concern has been noted, Mr. Black, and I’m sure Mr. Lupin will be very appreciative when I tell him you called. Now, if my eyes don’t deceive me and the clock is correct, I believe you should be on your way to class, lest your name be added to the list of absentees.” There’s a sound of light scuffling, then the slamming of the Hospital Wing doors, and then Madam Pomfrey sticks her head between the curtains and looks at Remus. “Oh,” she says, “you’re awake.”

 _Unfortunately_ , Remus thinks, his joints still twinging painfully, but all he says out loud is, “Urrhgfh.”

“You’re not going to class this morning,” Madam Pomfrey says, before he can ask, “I’ve already notified your professors.”

Remus groans. Madam Pomfrey hands him a glass of water and another potion with an expression that clearly says she is not to be argued with, though, so Remus sighs heavily, downs them both in one, and tries not to think about how Sirius Black came looking for him.

**//**

**_early june 1972_ **

For as long as she has been alive, Andromeda Black thinks she has gotten the short end of the stick. Not only is she a daughter in a family that places all its worth in its name, she’s the _middle_ daughter, overshadowed by Bellatrix but never afforded the same indulgent luxuries as Narcissa. But even if daughters are useless to the family when it comes to inheritance, they’re an asset, meant to be groomed and traded, presumably so that the family can continue presiding over the rest of the wizarding world with some misplaced sense of self-importance. Andromeda has understood this to be her role in the family for a while now, but as neither the eldest nor the youngest daughter, she doesn’t have high hopes for whatever match her parents come up with for her; she’ll undoubtedly end up with the worst of the three. (For a while, she seemed in danger of being given to one of the Lestrange brothers, but with the arrival of the announcement confirming Bellatrix’s engagement to Rodolphus, Andromeda thinks she can afford to relax a bit.)

Still, her parents’ owl has set off an alarm clock in her head that regularly demands her attention. _You’re next_! it says, waking her in the mornings, tearing her from her revision, interrupting her conversations with friends. She already knows the summer is going to be full of private banquets, and the celebration intended to celebrate her coming-of-age at the end of the year will surely be full of young men her parents have deemed acceptable suitors. She’ll be expected to socialise, pick a few of her favourites, and sit back and wait while her parents handle the diplomatic side of things. Meals in the Great Hall become a minefield; every time she asks someone to pass the roast vegetables she finds herself confronted with the ugly possibility that she might be expected to marry this person. 

It’s this growing, ever-persistent worry that is occupying her mind when she decides to ditch her Prefect patrol halfway through Saturday night in favour of heading up to the Astronomy tower for some fresh air and the opportunity to think without getting ink dumped over her head by Peeves. She leans over the wall and lights a cigarette, a pastime introduced to her by Ted, who has sworn he’ll stop but has started up again with fervour now that N.E.W.T.s are just around the corner.

It’s late, nearly midnight, so she nearly jumps out of her skin when someone behind her says, “Don’t let your mum and dad see you with that Muggle stuff.”

Sirius is sitting up against the wall, tucked into a corner. In the light of the waning moon, only half his face is visible, all gaunt and angular, and Andromeda thinks involuntarily of how much he looks like his mother. “Don’t do that!” she says, relaxing her grip on her wand. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“Don’t let your mum and dad hear you say that, either,” he says drily. He nods at the cigarette in her hand. “I didn’t know you smoked.”

Andromeda thinks about putting out her cigarette for the sake of setting an example for Sirius — it’s what Narcissa would do — but the image of the wedding announcement barges rudely into her mind again and she takes a long drag instead. “It’s not something I’m particularly keen on advertising to my parents.” Sirius nods. He gets it, Andromeda knows. “Anyway,” she continues, “what’re you doing out here? I could take off points right now for being out of bed.”

“And reveal that you’re bunking off Prefect duty?” Sirius says. He stands up and moves closer to the edge of the tower, staring up at the sky. “I’m just studying for Astronomy.”

Andromeda rolls her eyes in disbelief. “ _Please_. You, of all people, studying _Astronomy_? Spare me.”

“Okay, I couldn’t sleep,” Sirius says. “I like being out here. I get to look at the stars without having to please anyone.”

Andromeda sniffs once, sympathetic understanding. She brings her cigarette to her lips again and stares out at the Hogwarts grounds. “Me too,” she says, exhaling. Smoke billows out in front of her, dissipates into nothing. “Do you ever wonder what it’s like to be from a normal family?”

“You mean a Muggle family?” says Sirius. “Or just — not ours?”

“Not ours,” she says. “Not such a pure one.”

“Yeah,” Sirius says. “Quite a lot, now.”

Andromeda looks over sharply at her younger cousin. There’s an odd, closed-off expression on his face that makes him look far too severe for a twelve year-old, and she realises, a little guiltily, that she hasn’t spoken to him much since the holidays. Merlin knows what’s going on in his life, in his head, right now. “Yeah,” she agrees. “Must be nice, right? Not having to live up to anyone’s expectations.” She sucks on her cigarette again, relishing the acrid burn in her lungs. She thinks about this morning, how the news of Bella’s engagement finally went fully public and half the school had stopped her and Narcissa in the halls for the entire day to offer their congratulations. Even Slughorn had mentioned it in Potions. “Not being treated like some — some bloody fucking royalty, with your whole life out on display.”

Sirius snorts. “You know, the first time I met James, when I told him my name — you should have seen his face.” He mimics it for her now, eyes wide and mouth agape. “The more time I spend here, with other people — people who aren’t just dinner guests — the more I feel like everything my mum and dad try to get me to do is just stupid.” He sighs. “Not stupid, but just — I don’t want to be part of the family. No — it’s not that either, it’s — why can’t I do something without it being tied to who we are?”

The words are halting, unsure, rough around the edges like they should be for a little boy, but Andromeda nods; she knows what he means. She’s stopped introducing herself with her full name to new students long ago. It’s sickening, the way some of them try to change up their demeanour in an attempt to gain some favour with her once they realise who she is. She doesn’t want any part in whatever game her parents are trying to play. 

“Ted’s asked me to stay with him over the holidays,” she blurts suddenly.

It’s Sirius’ turn to look at her; his gaze snaps from the moon to her in less than a second, and Andromeda feels her face heating up. “Ted as in Ted Tonks? Hufflepuff Ted?”

“Yes, Hufflepuff Ted Tonks,” she says impatiently. “How many other Teds do I know?”

“But Bellatrix is getting married in August.”

“I know.”

“And you’re turning seventeen soon, your parents are going to want to — ”

“I _know_.”

Sirius lets out a whistle, long and low. “So what are you going to do?”

Andromeda tries to blow smoke rings and fails. She turns around, back to the damned sky of namesake stars that make her feel as if she’s being watched, and wiggles the cigarette between her fingers. She can trust Sirius, she thinks. “I like him a lot, Sirius,” she says quietly, “more than is allowed.”

“I know,” Sirius says. “Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy told me at the beginning of the year.”

Andromeda scoffs in disgust. “Malfoy needs to mind his own business. He brings out the worst in Cissa.” She sighs. “Anyway, I already turned Ted down.”

“What? Why?”

“Don’t play dumb,” she says. “You’re not good at it. You know why.” 

It had been miserable, having to say no to Ted’s bright, smiling face. He’d been so sure of her response. But it was for the best, Andromeda told herself, to stop and end it while she still could. It would be worse if she let herself live out the fantasy, only to have it taken away further down the road. “I didn’t have a choice.”

Sirius looks ready to protest, but he knows as well as she does that it’s true. Their lives have been meticulously mapped out for them since the day they were born. Nothing, and nobody, is allowed to derail that plan, and certainly not a Muggle-born wizard.

There’s an _incredibly_ long pause, and Andromeda is about to grind out her cigarette and call it a night — at the very least, she’s confided some of her worries in someone, if not all of them — when Sirius says, quietly but seriously, “Don’t tell me anything else.”

She freezes. “What?”

Sirius stares up at her and repeats, very deliberately, “Don’t tell me anything else.”

“What do you mean, _don’t tell me anything else_?” There’s a gut-wrenching fear that suddenly bubbles up at the bottom of Andromeda’s throat; she wonders if she made a mistake and read her cousin wrong. “I thought you of all people would understand — ” 

“My parents have been using Legilimency against me,” Sirius says simply, and walks off, leaving Andromeda to stare after him in dumbfounded shock, her cigarette still hanging between her lips. 


	7. vi. getaway car

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was going to wait a bit to post this but! i have no self control lol. sorry to be basic w the quote but anything richard siken makes me want to slam my head against the wall and scream for 20 years. be grateful i didn't go w my first instinct, which was to quote getaway car by the one and only t swift. also if you like andromeda black then this chapter's for you lol

_you’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and you’re trying not to tell him that you love him, and you’re trying to choke down the feeling, and you’re trembling, but he reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you don’t even have a name for._

— richard siken, _you are jeff_

**_mid-july 1972, summer holidays_**

The letter has barely touched the table when it’s Summoned away from Andromeda’s expectant fingers and set alight.

“That was _mine_!” she exclaims petulantly, though her input has never really made a difference before. She looks around the table, hoping for back-up, support of some kind, but as always, there is none. Cissa takes a sudden keen interest in her porridge, and Bella presses her lips together with an infuriating expression of contentment.

“As long as you live in my house, you will not receive letters from any Mudblood filth,” her mother says coldly. 

A familiar childish retort prickles on Andromeda’s lips — _well_ , _I’ll stop living in your house_ , _then_ — a threat that became more and more frequently used last summer when the news of her friendship with Ted reached her parents. But she holds herself back now, catches the words right before they can tumble out and do real damage. Before, they were only a threat. Today, the day she turns seventeen, they mean something.

Bella’s smug smile suggests she knows just what Andromeda is thinking, and Andromeda is overwhelmed with the urge to slap her sister, even if they are all having breakfast together. “It was just a harmless birthday message,” she says desperately.

Her father raises an eyebrow and prods the smoking remnants of the letter with the tip of his wand. “A harmless birthday message,” he echoes, “with _several_ pages.”

Andromeda scowls. She wishes Ted would just leave well enough alone. It would make it easier for both of them, she thinks, if he could just accept that they can’t be more than friends — scratch that, they can _barely_ be friends in the first place — and stop trying to write her. The thought of tonight’s party sends her stomach into another painful twist. There’s about a million other things she’d rather be doing on the evening of her seventeenth birthday; she finds herself even envious of Sirius, who at least gets to celebrate his birthday the way he wants, surrounded by all his Gryffindor friends. The two of them couldn’t be more different.

In an attempt to remind her of her place, her mother corners her in her bedroom mid-afternoon, and Andromeda knows her last moments to get away with youthful indiscretion are running out. Druella Black has always been a beautiful woman — Andromeda remembers wanting to recreate her mother’s make-up on her own face when she was younger, before she started spotting the little crows’ feet around her eyes and the frown lines — but her face is set in grim determination that distorts her features and makes them seem harsher than they should be. She frowns down at her daughter as if surveying a selection of meat at the butcher’s. 

“Tonight,” Druella says, her mouth pulled into a thin line.

“Tonight,” Andromeda repeats. She hears footsteps outside on the landing, and she imagines her sisters listening at the door. She wonders how this same conversation must have gone with Bella.

“You will not embarrass us.”

“I won’t,” Andromeda agrees, though she can’t help but roll her eyes; Bella was the subject of many letters home from Professor McGonagall, stating that her attitude towards many of her classmates was making her a disruptive presence in class, while she, Andromeda, is a Prefect. 

“A few families are bringing their children as well,” Druella says lightly. This, Andromeda knows, is code for _there will be suitors_. “You are expected to socialise with them.” There is a pause, and then Druella adds, as if to soften the blow, “Some you might know from school.”

Andromeda runs through the list of her classmates in her head, a year out either way. She has a feeling she knows who will be there. “Yes,” she says, trying not to curl her hands into fists. She thinks about Ted’s letter, a pile of thin grey ash on the dining table, swept up and disposed of by the house-elf without any further thought. 

Druella looks her daughter up and down, then turns towards her armoire and throws the doors open. “You’ll wear the robes your Aunt Walburga sent you for Christmas.”

Andromeda eyes the robes warily. Personally she doesn’t think her complexion is suited to the particular shade of silver embroidery adorning the silk, but she nods anyway. “Of course.”

“You are allowed _one_ glass of champagne, for the toast.”

This is more than Andromeda anticipated — Bella was forced to abstain at her coming-of-age banquet — so she smiles as pleasantly as she can, hoping it looks grateful. “Yes.”

Having apparently completed her lecture, Druella stands back for a few moments before cupping Andromeda’s chin in her hand. “My darling,” she says, in a voice so genuinely tender that Andromeda wonders if she’s dreaming. “I’m so glad to see you growing up.”

Andromeda blinks. Her mother releases her face and walks towards the door, then pauses with one hand on the handle. “There will be no talk of the Tonks boy.”

Andromeda nods again. She doesn’t say anything. Her mother smiles at her one last time and leaves the room. 

**//**

The banquet is painfully reminiscent of the dinner parties Slughorn is always inviting Andromeda and her sisters to. He’s actually there, much to her horror, laughing heartily with a man whom Andromeda recognises as Eldridge Macnair, one of the school governors. She also spots Macnair’s son Walden, a self-important boy from the year below her, standing a few feet behind his father, looking rather annoyed at having been dragged to this function, and wonders what it’s like to be so unaware of one’s place and purpose in the world.

The Malfoys, of course, are there, pale and severe as ever. Narcissa gravitates towards Lucius as soon as he appears and follows him about everywhere; Andromeda assumes she’ll be at his elbow the rest of the evening. _Have some self-respect_ , she thinks, wrinkling her nose at the way Lucius places his hand on her sister’s waist. It doesn’t escape her musing that, if not for Narcissa’s existence, Lucius would probably be amongst the eligible suitors for her to choose from tonight.

It doesn’t take a genius to sort out the wheat from the chaff, the guests who are there to fill the space and the guests who are there for a purpose. Andromeda counts them on her fingers: Lawrence Avery, who’s just left Hogwarts, being a year above her; Cuthbert Selwyn and Antonin Dolohov from the year below. Big names, respectable names. She spots Selwyn and Dolohov engaged in conversation near the drinks table and balks at the sight of her cousin Evan next to them, done up in his best dress robes. She sincerely hopes he’s only here as a relative.

“What a way to spend your seventeenth birthday,” someone says from just below her shoulder, and Andromeda spins around to find Sirius frowning at the rest of the party. “These events really make me excited to come of age.”

“Nice cuff links,” Andromeda says drily, pulling at the cuffs of Sirius’ shirt. “Did your parents notice?”

“Told them Narcissa gave them to me. Seemed to shut them up.”

“Where’s Regulus?”

“Mother’s dragged him to the bathroom to fix his robes,” Sirius says, tugging at his own collar. “Merlin’s beard, it’s _stiflingly_ hot in here.”

“Try not to make it so obvious that you don’t want to be here, Sirius, dear,” Narcissa chimes in despairingly as she saunters by, alone for once, a plate of hors d’oeuvres in one hand. “Have you seen Lucius?”

Sirius pulls a face. “No.” He waits until Narcissa is out of earshot, then fakes a gagging sound. “What’s she even see in that slimeball? She’s obsessed with him, she is.”

Andromeda gazes down at her cousin. She tries not to feel too jealous of the fact that, limited though his choices will be when he comes of age, they’ll still be infinitely better than hers. Then she looks at Narcissa, and tries not to feel too jealous of _her_. How lucky she is to actually enjoy the company of the man she’s supposed to marry. “There are worse people to be married to than Lucius Malfoy,” she says simply.

“Yeah,” Sirius says, his lip curling, “like Rodolphus Lestrange.”

“Watch your mouth,” Andromeda says, but it’s hard to hold back her own smirk. She scans the room for her parents, and, seeing them both engaged in conversation with the Averys, knocks back her glass of champagne and reaches for another.

**//**

The unforeseen upside to being part of a large family who throws parties for the purpose of networking rather than actual celebration, Andromeda thinks, sneaking past the hedges at the edge of the courtyard, is that no one notices if the birthday girl disappears after the toast. She glances behind her once more, then cups her hands around her mouth and coos softly.

Porrex, the aging owl who once belonged to Bella and who she now shares with Narcissa, swoops down over the top of the hedge from a nearby tree, sending leaves up in the air. _Stupid owl_ , Andromeda thinks nastily, wincing when Porrex lands a little too heavily and digs his talons into her arm, _you’re going to get me caught._ She casts another surreptitious look over her shoulder, and, seeing no one, reaches into her robes for the scroll of parchment she hid earlier.

Porrex stares dumbly up at her with his wide, unblinking eyes. Andromeda shakes her arm impatiently. “Go on,” she whispers. “Take this to Ted.”

“Take what to Ted?” says a voice in the darkness.

Andromeda nearly pisses herself. As it is, her involuntary jerking disturbs Porrex, who takes off with a disgruntled hoot and immediately shakes the parchment off his leg. The scroll drops to the grass at Andromeda’s feet.

“What are you doing here?” she hisses, head whipping back and forth as she tries to spot Ted in the darkness. He emerges from the bushes at the base of the knoll on which she’s standing, teeth glinting in the dark as he grins up at her. He runs up the slope and she can’t resist his initial embrace, but then she remembers what she came out here to do and shirks away. “What — Ted, _no_.”

Ted freezes, eyes moving back and forth over her face. “Aren’t you glad to see me?” he says.

A million words come to the tip of Andromeda’s tongue. _Yes_ is the one her mouth wants to say the most. _No_ is the one she actually wants to say the most. _No_ , _I do not want to see you sneaking around the back of my house at the banquet my parents are having to celebrate my coming-of-age_ , _because besides the fact that you are not pure-blooded like everyone else here_ , _I am supposed to be deciding whether I’ll marry Lawrence Avery or my own cousin._

“It’s not a good time,” she finally says, unable to come up with something better. She can see the message she was trying to send, lying in between them. Ted spots it, too, and looks back up at her.

“Were you sending me a letter?” he says, his face so hopeful and excited.

Andromeda can’t bring herself to answer. She bends down to pick up the letter and hands it to him wordlessly, sits down in the grass with her knees pulled to her chest and waits for him to read it. In the heavy silence between them, the crickets and the muted chatter of dinner guests up at the house seems obnoxiously loud. She wishes she could turn it down.

“What does this mean?” Ted says finally, the parchment quivering in one hand, his lit wand limp in the other. “Dromeda — what does this — ?”

Andromeda sighs. “Don’t,” she says, grimacing at the nickname. “You know what it means.”

“But I love you,” he says, stupidly. “I drove here to surprise you on your birthday because — I asked you to stay for the holidays — I wrote you that letter this morning, didn’t you read it?”

“My parents burned it before I could read it,” Andromeda says, her throat swollen but her voice hollow. _Fuck_ , she thinks, picturing the parchment shrivelling up on the table before her eyes, glowing red and orange. She could do with a cigarette right about now.

Ted’s mouth opens and closes, making some sort of strangled coughing noise. She tries not to think about how many times she’s watched him suck in the smoke from a cigarette and pass it to her, letting the smoke escape from between his lips in a slow white spiral, tries not to think about how many times they blew off Prefect duty to run down and sit by the lake together, how she’d sit on the grass, just like this, while he stood up above her, telling her ridiculous stories about his Muggle life as she listened in rapt fascination. 

“Andromeda?” someone calls quietly from behind them, and both she and Ted start. She presses a finger to her lips — unnecessarily, probably, Ted’s not stupid — and freezes in the dark, trying to place the voice. “Andromeda!”

“It’s Sirius,” she mouths.

Ted tilts his head. “Your cousin?”

Andromeda nods, one hand gripping Ted by the wrist.

“Doesn’t he know?” Ted whispers.

For a moment, Andromeda relaxes. _He’s right_ , she says to herself, _Sirius would never rat you out. He knows Ted asked you to stay for the holidays._ And then she remembers the rest of the conversation on the top of the Astronomy Tower and how it ended, and she leaps to her feet, dragging Ted after her. “I can’t let him see us together,” she says, marching away from the house. “Where’s your car? Please tell me you parked it out of sight.”

Ted’s car, a beat-up Volvo sedan, is parked in the copse of trees that’s just barely visible from the hill on which the house sits. Bending down so as not to hit her head on a low-hanging branch, Andromeda says a silent thanks for the tree cover and slides into the passenger-side front seat. The silence continues as they sit there, Andromeda on the left and Ted on the right, the noise from earlier muted by distance and the sanctuary the car provides. Ted seems to be waiting for her lead, and Andromeda casts about wildly for what to say, what to address first, where to begin.

“My aunt and uncle have been using Legilimency against him,” she says abruptly, hoping that it’ll somehow explain everything, from the letter saying they need to stop talking to each other to the mad rush for the car. 

Ted raises his eyebrows. “Isn’t that — that’s mind-reading, isn’t it?”

Her parents would scoff at the term, but Andromeda nods. “He asked me not to tell him anything else about us,” she says. “In case his parents see it.”

Ted drums his fingers against the steering wheel. “Wow,” he says, after a lengthy pause, the _w_ dragging out slightly as he tries to figure out what else to say. “That’s a big load for a twelve year-old to be dealing with.”

Andromeda nods guiltily. Surely Sirius, having failed to locate her at this point, will put two and two together. It doesn’t matter that he hasn’t seen her and Ted together, she realises, the fact that she’s disappeared from her own party is enough. He’ll be punished for knowing. She looks over at Ted’s hands, still doing their dance across the steering wheel. “It’s complicated,” she says. "My family's complicated."

His hands still; he looks back at her. “I know,” he says.

And as she grips the back of Ted’s neck and inhales the cigarette smoke on the collar of his flannel shirt, Andromeda realises that it doesn’t matter what Ted’s letter to her, or her own message to him, said. It doesn’t matter whether or not Evan Rosier is at her party as a prospective husband or a cousin. It doesn’t matter whether Sirius came looking for her outside or not: she would have come to Ted’s car anyway. None of it ever mattered. Every possible action, every possible outcome, it would all have ended here, in Ted Tonks' car.

**//**

Ever since hearing Marlene McKinnon talk about her three brothers while at school, Sirius has secretly harboured a desire to belong to a family like hers. He has Regulus, but Regulus is taciturn and too weary for someone his age, and there’s far too much difference between the two of them and their cousins — both in gender and in age — to really find much satisfaction in talking to them, let alone for all of them to be as close and tightly-knit as Marlene and her brothers are.

But now, seated cross-legged on the carpeted floor of his cousin Narcissa’s bedroom, Regulus across from him and Narcissa perched on the end of her bed, listening as his mother screams below them and his father and uncle haphazardly interject their own exclamations — Sirius feels closer to his brother and cousin than he ever has before, and he's not sure if he likes it.

Personally, Sirius thinks Andromeda’s abscondment is one of the best things to happen in the family. It’s amusing, it’s thrilling, no one really got hurt except for his parents and uncle and aunt — and Sirius isn’t exactly inclined to feel sympathy towards them, anyway. But at the same time, it’s terrifying; he knows a _yet_ belongs on the end of _no one’s gotten hurt_. He’s grateful for Regulus and Narcissa beside him, for two other people to share in his worry, even if they are all worrying for different reasons.

“What’s going to happen to Andromeda?” he asks, after a particularly loud _bang_ sounds below them and the floor shakes dangerously.

Narcissa hugs a pillow to her stomach and frowns. “Mother and Bella will find her.” She sniffs. “It’s really very inconvenient of her to run away before the wedding. We’ll be short a bridesmaid.”

Sirius thinks this is probably the least of anyone’s problems, but he nods anyway. Regulus yelps and grabs at his older brother’s wrist as another explosion sounds downstairs. Walburga’s shrill voice rattles the windows throughout the house. Even Narcissa, usually composed and passive, winces at the sound. 

“I told you nothing good would come of her and Ted Tonks spending so much time together,” Narcissa says.

Sirius blanches. “What was I supposed to do?”

“She must have told you something.”

“She really didn’t.”

Narcissa stares at him, her eyes cold and hard. Sirius is reminded first of staring at a white rock, and then, for a horrific moment, of the look in his father’s eyes before his mind gets rifled through. He braces himself for the ordeal of having his cousin look through his memories, but the intrusion never comes.

The door slams open, and Narcissa’s and Sirius’ gazes snap apart as Walburga seizes both her sons by their arms and drags them to their feet. “Come,” she says, voice oddly constricted and a little scratchy from so much yelling. “We’re going home. I’m not letting you turn into a filthy blood traitor like her.”

**//**

**_late august 1972_ **

Bellatrix’s wedding is a muted affair.

Sirius isn’t sure who’s the most upset about it: his cousins, his parents, or his aunt and uncle. When he arrives at his uncle and aunt’s country estate four hours before the event is due to begin, his mother immediately drags him upstairs to Narcissa’s room, where Narcissa is doing her makeup in her vanity mirror with a very strained expression on her face. Sirius assumes it’s only because she’s trying not to poke her eye out, but then she sits back and turns towards him, and he realises that’s just her default expression now, all pinched and a little teary-eyed, like she’s just been yelled at. 

“Oh,” she says, eyes moving from Sirius’ sullen form to Walburga’s towering one just behind him. Walburga has been approaching the day with a warrior-like attitude, unwavering and uncompromising on everything from who’s Apparating with whom to how Regulus’ shoelaces should be tied, and Sirius knows this is just her way of regaining control over the whole situation. “Is Sirius — ?”

“Yes,” Walburga snaps. She pushes Sirius forward; he nearly trips over the end of the garment bag slung over his arms. “You can handle him?”

“Yes, but — I’m still not ready,” Narcissa says, blinking at them like she can’t understand what they’re doing in her room. “Can’t he go in — ”

Walburga’s hand tightens on Sirius’ shoulder and he squirms, trying to extract himself from her iron grip. It takes Narcissa a moment to realise she’s trying to speak through a Silencing Charm, and she stares at them mutely for a while until Walburga’s fist relaxes again. “Your mother tells me _that room_ is off-limits.”

Narcissa is still staring at him with that pained expression. “Very well,” she says, sighing and indicating a spot at the end of her bed. “Sit there while I finish getting ready, will you?”

Sirius obeys, watching as his mother nods her cursory approval and sweeps out the door, presumably to go smother Regulus with attention. He turns back to Narcissa, who eyes him in the reflection of her mirror as she lotions the backs of her hands. “Couldn’t you have brushed your hair a bit more before coming?”

“My mother did,” he says. “The Side-Along Apparition messed it up.”

Narcissa sighs despairingly. “Of course it did.”

Several hours later, Sirius finds himself stood next to Narcissa, watching Bellatrix and Rodolphus recite their vows. He thinks they could afford to act a little more interested in each other — Rodolphus is bland as a person to begin with, but Bellatrix, normally on the side of having to reel herself in, says everything very mechanically, as if she’s trying to get it all over with as fast as possible. Sirius knows she’s put out by the fact that he’s a poor stand-in for Andromeda — he can’t blame her, he’s her twelve year-old cousin, for fuck’s sake, standing at least half and head shorter than everyone else at the front — and the fact that, in an attempt to invite as few questions about the affairs of the Black family, no one from the press has been allowed to report on anything remotely pertaining to this wedding. Sirius imagines it’s anything but pleasant for Bellatrix to give up all the publicity she was promised. 

As much as Sirius admires Andromeda for her epic escape, he, too, finds himself wishing she had at least waited until after the wedding. Made to act as her stand-in for the entire evening, his place at the reception is shifted from one of the guest tables, where Regulus, the Greengrass twins, and Kingsley Shacklebolt from school are seated, to the main table at the front, sandwiched between his Aunt Druella and Narcissa. In contrast to his own mother’s steely, unflappable demeanour, Druella has plastered a watery smile to her face and seems unable to stop thanking anyone and everyone who speaks to her. She sets down her cutlery at regular intervals during the meal to randomly grab at Sirius’ arm; he jerks away in surprise the first time but grits his teeth and lets her pat his hand after that. A few of the guests who aren’t close enough with the family to fully understand where Andromeda is shoot him curious glances as they pass by on the way to the bar, but if anyone thinks it unusual that he’s sitting on the side of the table meant for immediate family, no one says anything.

(“Won’t people think it’s odd that I’m sitting in her seat?” Sirius had asked, when his parents had held him back after breakfast one morning to inform him that he would be replacing Andromeda in the wedding.

“Consider it your debut as the Black heir,” his father had responded gruffly. Sirius didn’t bother pointing out that he had already been paraded about at too many dinners for this to be considered a debut.

“You’re the firstborn son,” Walburga had added. “It’s unconventional — ” and here her face twisted nastily “ — but not inappropriate.”)

Sirius casts another longing look at the table where he’s meant to be sitting. With only five seats instead of the originally planned six, the place settings look oddly spaced around the table. One of the house-elves hired for the event tops up Sebastian Greengrass’s wineglass. Next to her brother, Aster Greengrass whispers something in the house-elf’s ear; the house-elf nods and fills Kingsley and Regulus’ glasses, too. Sirius thinks about the three-drink limit his mother placed upon him and scowls at his own half-empty glass. 

When Professor Slughorn approaches the table to congratulate Bellatrix, Druella drops her silverware again and grabs Sirius’ hand, her jewelled fingers clenching around his. He reaches over and pats hers awkwardly, and is fervently wishing he could think of something to say that doesn’t involve either Hogwarts or Andromeda — he complimented Bellatrix about half an hour ago, but it didn’t sound very sincere, so he’s not about to try again — when his aunt suddenly pulls back the sleeves of his robes and says, a little tearfully, “That’s a nice set of cuff links.”

Sirius hums and lifts his hands off the table, adjusting his shirt cuffs before shaking his sleeves back down over them. He hopes that’s all Druella has to say, but then she tilts her head and says, “I don’t remember giving those to you.”

“No,” Sirius agrees. He’s about to tug at his collar when he realises it’ll just draw more attention to his cuffs, so he goes back to eating. “You and Uncle Cygnus never gave me cuff links, remember? The ones last Christmas were for Regulus.”

“Oh,” Druella says, looking puzzled. She rearranges the bangles — all silver — on her wrist and eyes the gold cuff links sceptically. “Who gave you those, then?”

Sirius shifts uncomfortably. He debates lying and saying Uncle Alphard, until his mother happens to catches his eye from across the room, and he decides keeping up that ruse is more trouble than it’s worth. “Narcissa, actually,” he says. “They were a gift for my birthday last year.”

The news that her youngest daughter did something nice seems to cheer up Druella, and she beams pleasantly. “Oh, how lovely. Narcissa — what a lovely choice.”

Narcissa, who has been staring morosely at the table where Lucius Malfoy is seated with several other seventh-years Sirius recognises from school, starts and looks over at her cousin and mother. “Sorry?” she says faintly.

“His cuff links,” Druella says, apparently unable to stop fixating on them for reasons unknown to Sirius. “They go well with his robes.”

Narcissa blinks at Sirius’ hands and spontaneously bursts into tears.

Later, after Narcissa has stopped crying, and the guests have all been thanked and seen to the gates, and all that remains of the wedding is the team of house-elves clearing the dishes, Walburga seizes Sirius by the neck of his robes and drags him into Cygnus’ library. Without waiting for him to catch his breath, she glares at him, and he stands in front of her helplessly, as the memory of Andromeda handing him his birthday gift is pulled from the back of his mind.

His tie clip and cuff links are blasted into nothingness in the foyer of Grimmauld Place that night. Walburga points up the stairs wordlessly, the universal command for _go to your room_. 

Sirius goes, hands in his pockets. As he passes by the tapestry, he tries not to look at the singed hole in the tapestry where Andromeda used to be.

**//**

**_1 september 1972_ **

Remus doesn’t pretend to know a lot about the inner workings of pure-blood families, but even he can tell the scene on the platform at King’s Cross is unpleasant.

He spots Peter first, nestled in the shadows of his parents like he’s still a brand-new first-year. Peter isn’t looking at back at him, though, and Remus follows the direction of his frantic waving to see James strolling through the barrier, his parents arm-in-arm behind him. 

“Hullo,” James says brightly, abandoning his trolley with his father so he can clap Peter on the back. Irene and Charles Pettigrew look positively alarmed at this energetic interaction, but James immediately sticks his hand out to them in introduction, and it’s impossible not to appreciate him when he’s being polite. His attention turns to Remus next, and Remus is just about to introduce his parents when suddenly James’ eyes widen and he mutters, “Oh, Merlin. The Blacks.”

Remus isn’t really sure what he expected to see; his knowledge of the Black family extends only as far as what Sirius is willing to talk about. He does have a vague recollection of seeing Walburga Black on the platform at the start of the winter holidays and the end of last term when she came to collect Sirius, but that impression isn’t particularly positive, and the scene before his eyes now does nothing to improve his opinion. 

For one thing, as opposed to just Sirius and his mother, the whole family has arrived together. A tall, imposing man who looks as if his body is held upright by a brace stands behind Sirius’ mother, his lip curling as he surveys the platform bustling with children and owls and the stationmaster’s cries. Walburga herself is frowning deeply, glaring at anyone who dares come within a few feet of the family, one jewelled hand on Sirius’ shoulder. Sirius looks mildly pained at being forced to arrive in such a manner, but the boy next to him, whom Remus assumes is Regulus Black, looks mildly intrigued by the attention the family is receiving. Next to them, Narcissa Black, paler than ever, is staring directly at the train as if unable to look at anything else, and a man and woman — presumably Sirius’ aunt and uncle — have the same stiff, unsmiling expressions as Sirius’ parents. 

“Where’s Andromeda?” Remus murmurs, scanning the station. 

“There. Look,” James says, eyebrows raised. “Blimey, is that Tonks with her? _Hufflepuff_ Tonks?”

Remus recognises Ted Tonks, former Prefect and thwarter of many a scheme last year, fifty feet away, and Andromeda Black in front of him with a pained look on her face. She’s staring at her family, eyes moving from Narcissa to Sirius, and she starts forward, but Tonks has his hand on her arm, pulling her back. 

James whistles. “No love lost there,” he says drily. He turns back to his luggage trolley. “Well, come on then, let’s go find our carriage before it gets stolen by some icky first-years.”

“You yourself were a first-year not too long ago,” his mother chides, but she ruffles his hair affectionately and kisses him on the top of his head. James flushes bright red and immediately busies himself with dragging his trunk over to the train. 

“That your friend, then?” Remus’ father says, his voice low, nodding over at the space where Sirius’ family stands. His eyes are dark, his mouth set in a flat line. “Sirius Black?”

“He’s not like them,” Remus says hurriedly, before his father can start worrying too much about who he’s making friends with.

Lyall frowns. “You don’t know that.” Remus notices his arm tightening around his mother’s waist. He glances around surreptitiously, then says, very quietly, “I heard, through work, what happened with their daughter over the summer.”

“Andromeda?”

“They’ve disowned her. For running away to be with a Muggle-born.” He squats down until his eyes are level with his son’s, hands on his shoulders. “Remus, promise me you’ll be careful when it comes to that family.”

“Lyall, don’t make him worry more than he already does,” Hope says, tugging on her husband’s arm, but her face has adopted a rather pinched expression. Remus wonders how much she knows about blood purity, if she’s feeling the strain of being in the presence of the Blacks. As if reading his mind, she smooths out her dress and moves a few inches to the side, shielding herself behind her husband’s Ministry robes.

Remus’ father straightens up again. “Mind how you go,” he says grimly. 

Remus nods. His mother hugs him tightly, whispering in his ear to take care of himself and not to work too hard; his father helps him load his trunk onto the train, and then he’s hanging out of the window with James and Peter, waving as their parents fade into tiny dots in the distance.

“Merlin, Sirius’ family really is something,” James says, once they’ve found their way to the last compartment and shut the door. “Did you see the way his mum was looking at his cousin? Looked like she wanted to hex her.”

“My dad told me she ran away,” Remus says. “That’s why she came with Tonks. They’ve disowned her, apparently.”

Peter’s eyes widen. “ _Really_?” He turns to James. “They can’t just do that, can they?”

James shrugs. “Pure-blood families have weird ideas.”

“ _You’re_ pure-blood.”

“Yeah, but not like them. _My_ parents don’t believe there’s such a thing as blood traitors.”

Remus picks at the hem of his sleeves, shifting uncomfortably. He thinks about the stash of Muggle medicines in his trunk, his mother’s Muggle baking when he goes home for the holidays, the way she writes her letters to him with a ballpoint pen. He glances at Peter, but deep down he knows that Peter’s not the same. Peter’s mother might have grown up with Muggles, but at least she owns a wand. 

The door slides open, and Sirius sticks his head in. “What’s all this, then? Starting the party without me?”

James immediately cackles with delight and stands, pulling Sirius into a hug. “Sirius, mate! Was wondering when you’d show up. Saw you on the platform, but we didn’t want to go up, not with — well, you know.”

Sirius rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I do know. Good call,” he says, throwing his rucksack down on the seat next to Remus. “How much d’you know?”

“Remus was just telling us your cousin’s been disowned. Is it true?”

“Unfortunately.” Sirius runs a hand through his hair, frowns, and then taps Remus’s foot with his own. “Budge up, Remus, make room. I’ve got a surprise for you all.”

For the first time since Sirius’ arrival, everyone in the compartment notices the boy standing in the shadow of the doorway. Remus recognises the family resemblance immediately: the grey eyes, the sharp cheekbones, the thick, dark hair that’s kept just a bit closer-cut than Sirius’. The boy’s lips quirk in what might be a shy, begrudging smile, and Sirius yanks him further into the compartment. “This is my brother,” he says. “Regulus, these are my friends. Say hello.”

“Hello,” Regulus says, taking the seat closest to the door obligingly and pressing himself into the corner. Remus feels a fleeting moment of sympathy for him and averts his gaze. 

“Regulus is starting this year,” Sirius continues. “Which is an absolutely mad time to be starting, if you ask me. Slytherin’s going to be a nightmare this year, what with Andromeda still being here and Lucius and Narcissa constantly wrapped around each other.” He makes a face, then grins and nudges his brother. “Maybe you’ll follow in my footsteps and avoid that whole nightmare, huh?”

The tips of Regulus’ ears colour bright pink. “That’s not funny, Sirius,” he says quietly.

Sirius sighs. “No, suppose not. It would destroy our mum and dad if neither of us were in Slytherin.” He frowns again, and for a moment, Remus catches that familiar harassed, closed-off look in his eyes. “Don’t think it’ll be a problem, though, he’s always been better behaved than me. Isn’t that right, Reg?”

“Regulus.”

“Yeah, don’t call him Reg,” Sirius says to the rest of them. He seems to have lost all trace of his family’s strained mood on the platform, and Remus brushes off his father’s warning. How could Sirius be like the rest of his family when he’s so quick to laugh?

The first hour on the train passes uneventfully. James produces a pack of Liquorice Wands (Regulus politely refuses) while detailing his recent trip to France with his parents, and Peter recounts a story about how he broke his finger while de-gnoming his mother’s garden (even after Peter has detailed the sequence of events twice, Remus still isn’t sure how it’s possible to mess up de-gnoming to such an extent). Sirius describes his cousin Bellatrix’s wedding — to Regulus’ obvious chagrin — in a way that makes Remus never want to attend a wedding, and then the attention turns to Remus.

“How was your summer, Remus?” Peter asks.

Underneath his T-shirt and jumper, the freshest of Remus’ scars prickle unpleasantly. He fights to keep himself from flushing, aware that, next to him, Sirius has probably felt him stiffen. He has nothing to offer in the way of fun anecdotes, not when he measures time in moon phases. It’s either _full moon_ or _just after the full moon_ or _preparing for the full moon_. Trips out of the country are not an option, his mother would probably break her own bones rather than make him do taxing physical labour, and he hasn’t seen or spoken to his mother’s side of the family since he was young. For Remus, summer was spent reading in the sun on the back porch while his mother fussed over him and his father repaired the hinges on his bedroom door. 

But he can’t say this, so he scratches absent-mindedly at his healing scabs and says, “Fine. Dull.”

Sirius looks at him curiously and looks like he’s about to say something, until the door is pulled open and Narcissa Black pokes her head into the carriage. It’s as if a sudden frost descends over them — even James’ laugh dies down — and both Sirius and Regulus look up at their cousin, surprised. 

“Sirius,” Narcissa says, inhaling sharply and making eye contact. Sirius’ eye twitches. Narcissa gazes around the rest of the carriage; Remus immediately becomes very preoccupied with the view outside the window until she speaks again. “Regulus. Come on.”

Regulus looks about at the rest of them. “Come on,” Narcissa repeats impatiently, leaning against the door and holding out her hand. “Come sit with us.”

“But I don’t want to sit with a bunch of sixth- and seventh-years,” he says, in what Remus thinks might be the longest string of words he’s spoken so far, at the same time that Sirius says, “I’ve got him, thanks.”

Narcissa purses her lips. “Your mother told me I’m to keep an eye on him.”

Sirius rolls his eyes and sighs. “Oh, _this_ again.” 

“It’s for his own good,” Narcissa snaps. “Come on, Regulus, let’s go.”

With one last uncertain look between his cousin and his brother, Regulus stands and follows Narcissa out the door, which thuds shut behind them. 

“My parents seem to think that they can avoid the pitfalls of me and Andromeda if they try hard enough,” Sirius explains nonchalantly, watching as Narcissa and Regulus retreat down the corridor. “And yet, if anything’s going to turn my brother off Slytherin, it’s almost certainly going to be spending the entire train ride watching my sister throw herself at Lucius Malfoy.” He claps his hands together. “Enough of the family drama, then. James, please tell me you’ve brought an Exploding Snap deck. Don’t give me that look, Remus — you’re definitely playing.”

**//**

The Hall falls silent when Regulus is called to the Sorting Hat. Sirius isn’t sure if it’s because everyone has really stopped talking, or because the rush of blood in his own ears has muted everything else around him. 

Remus nudges him gently and offers a tiny smile. “He’ll be fine,” he says.

Sirius hopes for his brother’s sake that Remus is right. He watches as Regulus approaches the stool — anyone else would miss it, but Sirius knows his brother and can spot the way he anxiously picks at the cuticle on his thumb with his middle finger — and Professor McGonagall drops the Hat onto his head. 

Regulus keeps his eyes wide open, defiant. In the split second before the rip in the brim of the Hat opens, Sirius swears Regulus stares straight at him. 

_Slytherin_. 

The Slytherin table erupts in cheers; Narcissa and Lucius, sat next to each other, beam at Regulus as he takes a seat across from them. At the opposite end of the table, Andromeda claps politely, her mouth flattened into a thin line. Sirius breathes a sigh — of relief, of disappointment, he’s not quite sure. It’ll take a while, he thinks, to decide if it’s for the better or the worse. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also i just want everyone to know: i am very bad at responding to comments both bc i forget to and also bc i don't know how to receive praise lol. however if u have ever commented rest assured i have read it and screamed silently because i love u all for reading. insert that one puppy eyes emoji here lmao


	8. vii. the whomping willow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've always projected onto lily a bit and recently i just kind of threw all caution to the wind and was like eh, fuck it, let's make her partially deaf. i think i sort of hinted at it in earlier chapters but it's like blatantly mentioned in this one so welcome to my "lily evans has single sided deafness" hc club, population: me.
> 
> i wrote this at like 2 am after doing course readings for like 5 hrs so sorry if it reads like its un-beta'd and like i might be drunk. oops. also u know how i said i love cho chang and i put like way too much thought into her backstory? take a wild guess abt who shows up in this chapter. yes it's her mother (her dad also makes a cameo) and yes i'm obsessed w her
> 
> finally sorry for being basic w the lyrics but like.....who doesn't love listening to lorde and crying on the bathroom floor?? lmao

_so they pull back, make other plans,  
_ _i understand, i’m a liability._

— lorde, _liability_

**_late september 1972_ **

There’s something very admirable about the way that Narcissa manages to ignore her presence no matter the situation, Andromeda thinks. Perhaps it’s a trait learned from their mother, or maybe being all cold and frosty to anyone besides Lucius Malfoy is in her nature. Whatever it is, it’s impressive how, even a month into term, they’ve exchanged exactly zero words. 

Andromeda thought there would be no avoiding speaking to each other during Prefect meetings — at least not while they were on the train, two dozen people seated around a table in a confined space. But even as she sat down in the spot marked for her, across the table from her younger sister, Narcissa merely stared directly over her shoulder and congratulated Lucinda Zabini on being named one of the new fifth-year Prefects. Edgar Bones, the new Head Boy, appeared entirely oblivious to the situation — which made sense, there was absolutely no reason why he should know — but he seemed unsurprised when Narcissa glanced at the patrol list and said, “Edgar, I can’t share that patrol on Tuesday nights.”

“Right you are,” he’d said cheerfully, swapping out Narcissa’s name for his own. If anyone else in the carriage thought it odd that the Black sisters were no longer doing patrols together, no one said anything.

Then there had been Regulus’ Sorting, when Regulus had wordlessly joined Narcissa at the far end of the table. Neither he nor Narcissa even so much as glanced in her direction — not that Andromeda expected them to — but there was something in her that wanted them to. Just a year ago they’d been sharing in their shock over Sirius’ placement. There should have been some acknowledgement, she thought, over how this was different, how this was better, how this would improve things for Regulus and Sirius. Surely Narcissa knew that — but if she did, she gave no sign of understanding, only smiled at her friends as she introduced Regulus to the ones he didn’t already know.

And then there was Slughorn’s first little dinner party of the year. Andromeda didn’t make a habit of attending — and as far as she knew, neither did Narcissa — but she was so surprised at still being extended an invitation that she thought, _Fuck it_ , and broke out her formal wear that had been sitting in the bottom of her trunk for the last four months. As far as she knew, Bella was the only one of the three of them who ever made a habit of attending Slug Club dinners, so it had been a surprise when, upon arriving at the party, Andromeda’s eyes fell upon Narcissa. Slughorn, either unaware of what had happened over the summer, or _acutely_ aware and (stupidly) hoping to reconcile the family for them, spent much of the meal trying to engage both of them in some sort of dialogue, and he failed miserably when Narcissa gave him the world’s most boring responses and Andromeda immersed herself in conversation with Edgar about how difficult Flitwick’s essays were becoming. 

Given all of this — Narcissa’s successful efforts to avoid any sort of contact with her in the course of Prefect duty, their places as far away from each other as possible during meals, and the absence of conversation even when they were seated on either side of Slughorn — Andromeda thinks it’s not the worst-case scenario. It stung at first, the way her sister seemed to forget about her existence so easily, but as time continues, she’s starting to enjoy the overwhelming sensation of liberation; even if Slughorn still thinks she’s a Black daughter, she’s not bound by the same rules any more. 

Enjoying this freedom, however, is premature. Ted loves using the phrase _when the levee breaks_ , and if anything has ever summed up the meaning of it, Andromeda thinks it would be the Saturday night that Professor McGonagall, of all people, comes barging into her dormitory at one in the morning.

“Miss Black,” she says, apparently undisturbed by the fact that there are four other girls in the room who are stirring, rubbing their eyes, and wondering what the Head of Gryffindor House is doing in their dormitory. Andromeda spots Aster Greengrass squinting and reaching for her reading glasses as if under the impression her vision’s suddenly gotten worse. “Please come with me.”

Andromeda follows, wondering if her wishes have finally been granted and her parents have caught dragon pox. But then they reach the common room, where Slughorn is already waiting with three of the other Prefects, and McGonagall instructs Andromeda to wait with them while she fetches Narcissa and Lucinda. 

“What’s going on?” she murmurs to Dolohov, who’s yawning and looking thoroughly pissed that he’s been dragged out of bed on the one night he has an opportunity to catch up on sleep.

“Don’t know,” he says. “Slughorn’s not saying anything.”

It’s another two minutes and an aggressively-paced journey towards Dumbledore’s office before they get any answers. In all seven years at Hogwarts, Andromeda’s never been, and she’s sure it’s never seen so many people at once; when they get there, most of the other Prefects have already been collected, along with an ashen-faced younger student that Andromeda’s never seen before. Professor Flitwick shows up after a few more minutes with the Ravenclaw Prefects in tow, then scurries off with Professor Sprout, and Dumbledore instructs them all to take a seat in front of his desk.

“Professor, perhaps time is of the essence,” Professor McGonagall says, glancing out the window.

“If speed was so important, you’d think they’d have told us by now,” Fei Chang, one of the Ravenclaw arrivals, mutters with a yawn.

The chairs Dumbledore has started conjuring disappear. “Of course,” he says. “Mr. Bones, I believe it was you who brought this to our attention?”

Edgar Bones clears his throat. “Well, Gladys came to tell me she was worried,” he begins, indicating the younger student. “She said she’d just come from a — a gathering, was it?”

“Party,” the unfamiliar student says, eyes wide.

“A party?” Slughorn repeats dumbly.

“For my brother,” Gladys says, looking for all the world like she’s going to burst into tears. “It’s his birthday. Or it was, yesterday, at least.”

Slughorn’s eyes light up. “Ah, yes! Davey, isn’t it?”

Gladys nods tearfully. “Davey loves a bit of sport, he does, and we were going to sneak into Hogsmeade — ” here Andromeda hears Narcissa sniff with disapproval “ — and — and explore a bit — the Shrieking Shack’s haunted, you know — but on our way to the village, we — we decided to go down to the lake for a midnight swim, and — and — Leon thought it would be fun if we messed about a bit, and — oh, can’t someone do something already?”

“She told me they’re going to the Whomping Willow,” Edgar finishes for Gladys, who promptly begins wailing.

“Miss Gudgeon,” Dumbledore says, his quiet voice just audible over Gladys’ hiccuping, “do you know who else was in this party?”

Gladys shakes her head. “Just Davey, and that Leon — the one who made the suggestion — oh, they’re going to get killed — they’re — ”

“Professor Flitwick will find them,” McGonagall says, with a slightly exasperated look in her eye that Andromeda recognises from class, when someone says something extraordinarily stupid. "Hopefully before any permanent damage is done."

Slughorn, apparently shocked at the idea that students from his own House could be sneaking about without his knowledge, clears his throat. “Er — how many were in this party?” 

“Twenty or so, maybe,” Gladys says.

“From different Houses, I assume?” Professor McGonagall prompts, pinching the bridge of her nose. Gladys nods.

“I think,” says Dumbledore, “the most prudent course of action would be to have half the Prefects check the dormitories for the students who are missing, and the other half assist in searching the grounds for them, don’t you? Those of you within the castle, if you could also check the corridors to make sure no other students are roaming about — Mr. Bones, if you could take Miss Gudgeon to Madam Pomfrey, perhaps a Calming Draught . . .” Dumbledore sighs heavily, as if preoccupied, and Andromeda wonders what exactly is on his mind that could eclipse the disaster of twenty students running wildly about the grounds and trying to get near the Whomping Willow. “Minerva, if you wouldn’t mind taking charge of the Prefects?”

Professor McGonagall nods briskly and beckons for everyone to follow her, pairing them off as she goes. A few of them who haven’t brought their wands with them receive withering looks — “Quite short-sighted of you, Mr. Malfoy,” she says, which delights Andromeda to no end — but those who have get sent off to various corners of the castle and into the grounds. 

“What I want to know is why we’ve got a murderous tree in the grounds,” Dolohov grumbles, digging his wand out of his pocket as McGonagall sends him and two other Prefects out the front doors. “Making us get out of bed like this — it’s inhumane, is what it is.”

Madelina Lau scowls at him and pulls her jacket tighter around herself. “What _I_ want to know is why your House are so stupid that they willingly try to go near a murderous tree, forcing us to get out of bed,” she shoots back.

“It’s not just Slytherins, the girl said,” Dolohov says, but he doesn’t say anything else as he and the others disappear down one of the paths towards the gamekeeper’s hut.

“Miss Black — both of you — if you’ve got your wands, down to the lake, please,” Professor McGonagall says, surveying the group she’s still got left. “Mr. Malfoy, if you could check the boys’ dormitories in your House to see who’s missing and then join them.”

Neither Malfoy nor Narcissa look particularly thrilled with this assignment, and Andromeda has to admit — though she hopes she’s hiding it better than they are — that it’s not very appealing to her either. She nods and heads for the door, turning around to wait for her sister, but Narcissa is trying to negotiate with McGonagall.

“Professor,” she’s saying, “I don’t think — ”

“I don’t think either Mr. Gudgeon or any of the other students he’s with will care to hear about your misgivings about your sister if they get seriously injured while you’re still trying to finagle your way into another option,” McGonagall interrupts, glaring at Narcissa over the rim of her spectacles. Andromeda suppresses a laugh. “Now, to the lake with your sister, _quickly_ , unless you longer wish to be a Prefect.”

“Come on, then,” Andromeda says cheerfully, because as much as she loathes the idea of having to do this with her sister and Lucius Malfoy instead of one of the other, more fun Prefects that she usually does patrols with, she relishes the opportunity to make her sister as uncomfortable as possible. “Let’s go.”

The moon is bright when they get down to Great Lake, reflecting off the surface of the water like a great big spotlight. It shines on Narcissa’s hair, framing her in a little halo, and for a moment Andromeda feels a pang of regret that she’ll probably never get to see her little sister getting married, looking all lovely and done-up and sharing her first moonlit dance — disgustingly enough — with Malfoy. But then Narcissa shoots her a look akin to one she'd give a steaming pile of dragon dung, and the moment's over.

“Doesn’t look like anyone’s still by the lake,” Andromeda says, extinguishing her wandlight and pocketing her wand. She wishes she had a cigarette. “Suppose we just keep an eye out and wait for your boyfriend, then.”

Narcissa frowns at her witheringly. “Don’t be so lazy,” she says. It’s the first thing she’s said to Andromeda in nearly two months.

“Last I checked, you weren’t too keen on coming out here.”

“That’s because I didn’t want to be paired up with you.”

Andromeda snorts. “Yeah, I noticed.”

“ _I noticed_ ,” Narcissa mimics, huffing. She folds her arms over her cardigan, lit wand still in her hand, casting a little beam of light onto the ground in front of them. “I want to go back to bed.”

“Don’t we all,” Andromeda says wryly. Narcissa glares at her. They stand in silence for a few minutes, gazing at the lake, and then Andromeda asks, “How was the wedding, then?”

Narcissa scowls. “Don’t pretend like you’re interested.”

“I’m not pretending. She _is_ my sister, even if she was getting married to an absolute creep, you know.”

“You’re not our sister.”

“I think you’ll find that I am.”

“I think you’ll find,” Narcissa says, lip curling, “that my parents don’t care for you any longer, and neither do my aunt and uncle.”

It’s the exclusion, the sudden change from _our parents_ to _my parents_ , that hits Andromeda the hardest. For as long as she can remember it’s always been _our parents_ , _us versus them_ , even _us versus Bella_. The fact that she’s no longer a part of this quiet battle against Cygnus and Druella’s blathering about marriage and heirs, the fact that she no longer shares with Narcissa the irritation with the game that they play, stings enough to bring tears to her eyes. “Cissa,” she begins, but Narcissa cuts her off.

“Don’t even _start_ ,” she says, jaw clenched. Her eyes are icier than usual, and Andromeda realises she’s on the verge of tears, too. “Don’t pretend you care about me, or Bella, or anyone else in this family when you’ve made it painfully clear where your loyalties lie.” A gust of wind blows a few strands of hair into her mouth; Andromeda reaches over instinctively to pull her hair away from her face, as she’s always done, but Narcissa slaps at her hands. “You gave up on us — on me! — you _left_ us — and for _what_? A Mudblood — ”

“Don’t use that word.”

“That’s what he is, Andromeda. He’s not like us. He doesn’t understand, or care about who we are.”

“I don’t want him to care about me because I’m a Black — ”

“You’re _not_ a Black,” Narcissa interjects, gritting her teeth.

Andromeda ignores her. “Ted is perfectly capable of both using magic for everyday life and _not_ using it. I’d say that makes him better than both of us.”

“You left _us_ for _him_ ,” Narcissa repeats.

“Because I _love him_.”

“Don’t make me laugh. You can’t love a Mudblood — _ow_!”

Andromeda shakes her hand out, wincing at the sting on her palm. She wonders if this is how Aunt — not Aunt — whatever she is now — Walburga feels when she slaps Sirius, or if she’s done it so many times that it doesn’t hurt anymore. Narcissa cradles her face and cups a hand underneath her nose, which has started dripping blood, trickling into her mouth and out the corner of her lips like she’s a vampire. 

“Narcissa!”

Andromeda glances over to see Malfoy running towards them. “Take a fucking walk, Malfoy,” she calls. “Your girlfriend and I are having a private conversation.”

“She _hit me_!” Narcissa shrieks, spraying blood everywhere with the force of her breathing. Malfoy turns her head in his hands; Andromeda rolls her eyes at the drama of it all.

“You’re lucky I don’t take points off,” he says, glaring at her.

“From your own house? _Please_. I’m older than you, and you can’t even take points off me if you wanted to,” Andromeda sneers. “ _You’re_ lucky I don’t jinx the living daylights out of you. Go drag her off to see Madam Pomfrey if you care so much about her dear face.”

Malfoy puts his arm around Narcissa and leads her up to the castle, casting a look over his shoulder that says he’ll be telling Slughorn all about this, and Andromeda flips them both the finger before wandering off to find another group of Prefects to join. 

A rustling in the bushes catches her attention, and she spins around, wand aloft, to see a fourth-year boy stumbling towards her, one hand trying to cover up what is obviously serious damage to one side of his face. “Davey Gudgeon?” she says, lowering her wandlight a bit so she can see him more clearly.

The boy nods, obviously crying from his uncovered eye. Andromeda sighs. “Come on, let’s get you up to the Hospital Wing,” she says, waving her arm and leading the way back up to the castle. She’s surprised it’s just his face that’s gotten messed up. “You’re lucky to be alive. Fucking idiot.”

**//**

There’s a vicious murmur all around the school Sunday morning. There are fewer Prefects than usual at breakfast, and the Slytherin table in particular is looking rather sparse, but when asked, Alice Fortescue just shrugs and says, “I’m not sure I’m allowed to say.”

“What do you mean, you’re not sure you’re allowed to say?!” James exclaims, nearly flinging his bacon off his fork. “All right, keep your secrets, then, I’ll ask Frank.”

“He said he’s having a lie-in until lunch,” Alice says, “so I wouldn’t go bothering unless you want points taken off.”

“Oh, you’re hopeless,” James sighs, but then he spots Patricia Rakepick coming in with Edgar Bones and Professor McGonagall and immediately tries to flag her down. “Patricia! _Patricia_! What’s happened?”

Alice glances at Sirius and Peter. “His tirelessness is impressive,” she says, pouring herself a cup of coffee and dumping in spoonful after spoonful of sugar. “How you two _live_ in the _same room_ with him is beyond me.”

Sirius hums. Normally he might be right by James’ side, chasing down an explanation for something that doesn’t really concern them, but he’s mostly preoccupied with the empty space next to Peter that Remus should be sat in. Besides, if this is some business Prefects are privy to, he can always try asking Andromeda. 

Madelina Lau slides into the seat next to Alice twenty minutes later, sporting a nasty bruise all the way down one arm and another one right over her temple. She rolls her eyes and nods when Alice asks if she’s all right, then mutters something about _stupid Slytherins_ , _dragging us out of bed like that_ , _serves them right_. Sirius finds himself redirecting his gaze towards the table across the Hall again, relieved to find that Regulus appears entirely unscathed by whatever happened last night. He makes a split second decision and gets up, finishing off his plateful of kippers in one mouthful, much to Lily’s disgust and Marlene’s amusement. “I’ll see you in the common room,” he says to Peter, swigging down the rest of his tea. “I’m going to go find Andromeda.”

Whether it’s because Peter doesn’t understand him through the mash of kippers or because he has no desire to involve himself in whatever hypothetical conversation might take place with Andromeda, he waves and resumes buttering his toast. Sirius legs it through the Hall, past Professor McGonagall who is now busy telling off James for asking too many questions, and up the stairs to the Hospital Wing, where Madam Pomfrey immediately greets him with crossed arms.

“No,” she says, before he’s even opened his mouth.

“How d’you know what I’m here for?” Sirius says incredulously.

Madam Pomfrey frowns. “I don’t,” she says, “but I’ve got plenty to deal with right now as it is, so _out._ ”

Sirius stands on his tiptoes, trying to see over her shoulder. He can spot a few students in the beds closer to the door with various injuries; he even recognises a few of them and spots, to his delight, Corban Yaxley with a heavily bandaged arm. But despite all the gossip at breakfast, he’s mostly interested in the curtained-off bed at the far side of the room, where, he’s nearly certain, Remus must be. 

“ _Please_ ,” he begs. “What if I said I was really worried about Yaxley?”

Madam Pomfrey’s frown deepens even further. “ _Out_ ,” she repeats, and she spins on her heel, pulling the doors shut behind her.

**//**

It takes less than a day for the news to spread to every corner of the school, in various forms of the same story: Davey Gudgeon and his friends snuck out to have a party and played about too close to the Whomping Willow. There’s a wide spectrum as to how it really happened and how serious it was, ranging from “freak accident” that resulted in barely a scratch, to “stupid game” that resulted in him taking some beating, to “conspiracy to have him killed so that he’d be off the Slytherin Quidditch team.” 

(The general consensus by noon is that, whether he’s only temporarily laid-up in the Hospital Wing or permanently injured, Davey Gudgeon is in no shape to be playing Quidditch any time soon.)

The bit of bonus gossip that Sirius gets is from Patricia Rakepick, who tells him, with equal parts disapproval and amusement, that Andromeda hit Narcissa so hard last night that Narcissa’s nose started bleeding. “Lucius Malfoy said he’d hex me six ways to Sunday if I told anyone,” Patricia says in a low voice after lunch, “but I outrank him anyway, so I figured you of all people should know. Just _don’t_ go blabbing, will you?” 

Sirius agrees, and promptly rushes upstairs to relay the intel to James and Peter. He’s surprised, then, when he races through the door to find both James and Peter absent, and only Remus standing at his bed, folding his clothes.

“Hi,” Remus says without looking up.

“Hi,” Sirius says. He glances around the dormitory. “Where are James and Peter?”

“You must’ve just missed them. They left to go practise flying,” Remus says. He grimaces as if he finds the concept slightly disturbing. “Well, James went to practise. I suspect Peter’s only watching.”

Sirius grins; James has been on about Quidditch tryouts since term began, and even before then in a few of his owls over the summer. “And you didn’t go?” he asks.

Remus snorts. “I’m not really in the mood to be whizzing about in the sky, or watching anyone do that, funnily enough,” he says, coiling a tie in his hands.

“Still feeling ill?” Sirius says, closing the dormitory door behind him and moving across the room to sit on the edge of his bed.

Remus glances up sharply. “Yes,” he says, sounding exceptionally weary. “A bit.” He pauses, wrapping another tie into a neat roll and stacking it on top of his shirts. “Madam Pomfrey said you came to see me.”

“Oh, yeah. She told me to get lost.” Sirius sits back on his bed, leaning on his elbows as he watches Remus fold his clothes with nervous precision. “Were in you in the Hospital Wing this morning? D’you see everyone there?”

Remus frowns. “I saw more people than usual,” he says. “And there was a curtained bed with some David, Davey or something — I heard Madam Pomfrey talking to him, but I didn’t see him. It sounds as if he’s in pretty bad shape.”

“You didn’t see him?” Sirius asks. Remus shakes his head. “Damn, I was hoping to get an answer on how bad it is — well, did you hear what happened? He and a bunch of others tried to get near the Whomping Willow. Got an absolute walloping, from the sound of it.”

Remus, if possible, pales to an even lighter shade of grey than he already is. He worries a shirt between his hands for a few seconds, then says, voice impressively even, “Well, it sounds like he deserved it.”

In the light by the window, Remus looks nearly as pale as Narcissa. His scars are even more pronounced like this, and Sirius notices a new one, red and angry, along the bottom of his jaw. He stares at it, unable to help himself, until Remus catches on and turns away, hand raised to his face to try and hide it.

“Does it hurt?” Sirius asks, before he can stop himself. It’s not the sort of childish, nosey curiosity that makes him ask; it’s genuine concern. He wonders what it’s like to be Remus and wake up every month with a new injury, a lifetime of being Davey Gudgeon.

The back of Remus’ neck turns bright red. “What?” he says. He doesn’t turn around.

“Your face. You’re hurt.”

“No,” Remus says, so quietly that Sirius almost misses it.

Sirius’ blood pounds in his ears, so loud he thinks it might drown out anything else Remus says. “Remus,” he starts, scooting to the end of his bed and standing up. “I know. You don’t — you don’t have to lie to me.”

Remus goes back to his clothes, lifting his stack of newly-folded shirts and tucking them into his dresser. “Know what?” he says, his tone of voice clearly betraying his feigned innocence.

Sirius sighs. “I said you don’t have to lie to me. I know you’re — ”

The dresser drawer slides shut with a _bang_ , louder than it’s meant to be. Remus is shaking, his hands clenched into fists; sickly and pale, but still flushed with rage and embarrassment, he looks pathetic. “You don’t know anything,” he says, and stalks out of the dormitory without another word.

**//**

**_late october 1972_ **

Remus doesn’t speak to them for a week. He wakes earlier than the rest of them and is out the door before any of them even crack open their eyes, he spends all his free time in the library and doesn’t acknowledge them when they sit at his table, and he starts partnering up with Lily in all their classes, leaving Peter to scramble about to find a partner from another House. Whether Lily knows Remus’ reason for distancing himself from the rest of his friends, Sirius isn’t sure, but she and Remus get along fine, and so she has no problem pairing up with him when she needs to. 

James, who can be remarkably stupid for someone so intelligent, and Peter, ever the oblivious one, have apparently not twigged onto the real cause behind Remus’ fairly regular absences. Sirius actually suspects that James has considered the possibility that Remus is lying to them at least once or twice, but has simply shut up and handled the situation with better tact. Regardless of how much either of them know, they both assume that Remus’ recent behaviour is the result of some row with Sirius, and limit their confusion to questioning glances at each other when Remus’ back is turned in class.

The issue comes to a head when the weekend rolls around and James reminds them all of the promise they made the previous week to come out and support him at Quidditch tryouts. Remus, who has finally decided to catch up on what seems like desperately needed sleep in lieu of escaping the dormitory before the sun has risen, stares at James blearily for a moment before saying, “I can’t, James, I’m sorry. I don’t feel well,” and drawing the curtains about his bed again.

“Come on,” James says. “A bit of fresh air would do you good.” But the curtains remain shut, and Remus remains silent. 

“What’s his problem?” Peter mutters at breakfast. “Remus, I mean. He’s been blowing us off all week.”

Sirius hums, pouring himself a glass of pumpkin juice. James has, thankfully, not taken Remus’ reneging personally, and is helping himself to a healthy serving of potatoes while chatting merrily to Marlene McKinnon about tryouts.

“He’s mad at me,” Sirius says simply, as if Peter doesn’t already know this. He sighs. “I’ll talk to him eventually.”

“You’d better,” Peter grumbles. “I don’t really fancy partnering up with Jennifer O’Neill in Defence Against the Dark Arts anymore. She’s even worse than I am.”

Sirius sighs again. True to his word, Remus is nowhere to be seen in the stands when they head out to tryouts after breakfast, and Sirius debates bunking off on his promise to James too, if only to track down Remus. Lily, Mary, and Dorcas Meadowes are there, though — presumably to cheer on Marlene — and Mary waves them over cheerfully.

“Come to watch Potter, I presume?” Lily says, barely looking up from her book, when Sirius sits down next to her.

Sirius shrugs. The group feels oddly empty without Remus, to whom he’d usually be making wisecracks, and somehow he gets the feeling Lily would not be as receptive to his commentary, even though she’s quick enough to pick up on it. Down on the pitch, Madelina Lau has started whistling and yelling at the various students who’ve shown up to try out. Sirius isn’t sure why there’s such a large turnout; even if all the spots are technically open, there’s only two or three spots that are really available for filling. “Yeah, we told him we’d come watch.” As if on cue, James looks up to the stands, and Sirius gives him a thumbs-up. “You ever seen him fly?”

“Not really,” Lily says disinterestedly.

“You’re missing out.”

“Hm,” says Lily, in a way that suggests she wouldn’t mind if she goes through all seven years of school without ever having seen James Potter play Quidditch.

Sirius watches as the players on the pitch kick off into the air, vying for Madelina’s approval as she groups them into threes and watches them race each other. In the row in front of him, Dorcas Meadowes cheers loudly when Marlene comes out first in her heat.

“You’re doing great, Marlene,” Lily calls out, bored, her attention still clearly on the book she’s reading.

“Blimey, Evans, you’re a great cheerleader,” Sirius says.

Lily glares at him. “Forgive me for having only a passing interest in watching a bunch of people get sweaty and knock each other about on brooms,” she says drily, just as Madelina releases the Bludgers onto the pitch, promptly knocking one third-year out of the air. She taps her ear with her finger. “I’ve never really seen the appeal of sporting events.”

Sirius falls silent. He hadn’t really thought about it, always assumed it was because she came from a Muggle family, but her cool attitude towards Quidditch makes sense now. “Can I ask you something?” he says, his mind drifting to Remus, who is undoubtedly still in their dormitory, brooding angrily instead of watching his friend battle it out eighty feet in the air. “For advice, I mean.”

Lily finally looks up long enough for Sirius to see her eyes clearly. She sticks her finger in the binding of her book. “Okay,” she says, suspicion creeping into her voice. “But I’m telling you right now, I’m rubbish with my sister.”

“What?”

“It’s about you and your brother, isn’t it? Or your cousins, or something?” Lily waves her hand like she can’t be bothered to keep track of Sirius’ ridiculous family business, and he thinks she’s right not to.

“No, it’s something else.”

Lily narrows her eyes. “ _Okay_ ,” she says, dragging out the word. 

Sirius thinks about how best to ask her his question without offending her. “You ever feel different?” he says finally.

Lily bursts out laughing. “Are you trying to make a joke?” she says in disbelief. When Sirius doesn’t answer, she places a bookmark in her book and sets it down on the bench between them, sandwiching her hands together between her knees. “Are you asking that because I’m Muggle-born? Or because I can’t hear you half the time?”

A little taken aback at how forthright she is about the whole thing, Sirius shrugs. “Both, I guess.” Lily’s still trying to stop laughing, so he continues. “I mean, you’re friends with Sniv — Snape,” he corrects, before Lily can decide to stop talking to him. It’s probably the longest they’ve gone without sniping at each other. “I can’t imagine that’s been — you know, without its differences.”

“No,” Lily agrees thoughtfully. “Sev’s not exactly tactful, a lot of the time. Sometimes it makes me feel bad.” She pauses. “Then again, Tuney’s not exactly a great sport about it either.”

“About magic? Or — you know?”

Lily rolls her eyes. “You can _say_ ‘deaf,’ you know,” she says.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” They watch as Madelina starts up a scrimmage, Marlene taking a spot in front of the goalposts nearest them. Lily claps half-heartedly, and Sirius cups his hands around his mouth, whooping as James catches the Quaffle and whizzes by. “Why’re you asking me this?”

Sirius sighs and stares past the opposite end of the stands, beyond the grounds, at the Forbidden Forest. “Say I want to ask someone something about themselves — about a — a condition they have,” he says, striking as light a tone as possible. “How would you want them to do it? Ask about it? Like — you know, what’s the least insulting way to do it?”

“Probably don’t ask in the first place,” Lily says, “if it’s not important.” She rolls her eyes again. “But if you _must_ — I don’t know, just — not in a way that feels like you’re goggling, you know? Not like — like you’re fascinated, or you think they’re some model or specimen to study.” James scores a goal against one of the fourth-years trying out for Keeper, and Peter dances in his seat. “It depends on the person. Who’re you asking?”

“No one,” Sirius says.

Lily squints at him. “Is this about Remus?”

“No,” Sirius says, a little too quickly. 

Lily sighs. “I have eyes. I can _see_ , dummy.” She fixes Sirius with a pointed stare. “I don’t know what’s going on between you, but whatever it is — look, when Sev gets weird about my whole family being Muggles, or about my hearing — ” she waves her hand “ — it just takes time. I get mad at him, and then within a week I realise he’s just bad with words and talking to people. Doesn’t mean it’s not his fault for being a jerk, sometimes, but it’s a waste of my energy to be angry with him, and — look, Remus is a sensible person. He’s not going to be mad at you forever.”

Sirius thinks of how Remus once refused to let any of them copy off his essay for Defence Against the Dark Arts for an entire week and then turned it in without letting them get so much as a glance at the title. “I don’t think you know Remus if you think he’s not that stubborn,” he says, but he gets up and heads back to the castle anyway. He’ll apologise to James later.

**//**

Remus jumps and groans internally when someone pulls out the chair across the table from him and says, “Can we talk?”

“I’m busy,” he says tiredly, dabbing at the inkblot that blooms across his parchment. He scratches out the obscured words and rewrites them, hand shaking a bit. 

“Listen, James is going to go mad when he finds out I’ve ditched him, too, so can we just talk about how you’re — ”

“Shut up!” Remus hisses, eyes darting around the library. The tables around them are empty, though, and he relaxes, if only by a little. 

“ — not talking to me,” Sirius finishes, “or any of us.” He blinks as if amused with Remus’ overreaction, and Remus flushes with irritation. “Calm down, keep your head on.”

Remus sighs, shoves his History of Magic essay into his textbook, and stands. “Not here,” he says. The gash on his jaw has scabbed over and itches; he resists the urge to scratch as Sirius follows him out of the library and through the corridors to their common room. “Has Peter put you up to this? Is he tired of partnering up with other people in class?”

“Yes,” Sirius says, trying not to laugh, “but that’s not why I wanted to talk.”

Remus stomps up the stairs to the dormitory and locks the door once they’re inside, sliding to the ground with his back against the wall. “Well, go on, then,” he says. “Get it out.” He closes his eyes, bracing himself for whatever Sirius might say and wishing, not for the first time, that he was back home. His dad would absolutely go insane if he knew that Sirius Black knows he’s a werewolf; Remus gets the sickening feeling that there are probably some things important enough for Sirius to write home about, as much as he hates talking to his parents.

Sirius, though, is uncharacteristically quiet for a moment. “I haven’t told Peter and James,” he says, and then, as if reading Remus’ mind, he adds, “or anyone else, for that matter.”

This is, though still bad, better than Remus had been anticipating. “When did you figure it out?” he whispers, pulling his knees to his chest and burying his head in his arms.

“Last year, doing Peter’s Astronomy homework for him,” Sirius says. “Honestly, I can’t believe he didn’t see it himself — but, well, that’s Peter for you.”

Remus does the math in his head, trying to remember the first time Sirius showed up at the Hospital Wing asking for him. _Christ_ , he thinks, _he really_ has _known for that long._ Sirius, apparently unbothered by his lack of verbal response, continues. “It’s okay, Remus,” he says.

 _It’s really not_ , Remus says in his head, and realises, to his horror, that he’s starting to cry. He pushes his head further into his arms, as if this will make him smaller, small enough to disappear.

“Remus, please say something. I’m starting to feel a bit weird.”

Remus doesn’t say anything.

“Look, Evans said I shouldn’t pry too much, but if you’re not going to say anything, I’m going to be tempted to start asking questions.”

Remus finally looks up; Sirius is standing in front of him, swinging his arms awkwardly by his side. “You talked to _Lily Evans_ about this?” His voice is painfully nasal and he sniffs, hoping it’s not obvious.

“Not about you specifically,” Sirius says quickly. “But, you know, just for advice on how to make you talk to us again. I miss talking to you.”

“I don’t think it’s such a good idea for us to be friends,” Remus says.

Sirius blinks. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t think we should be friends,” Remus repeats, "for your sakes.”

“Don’t be daft,” Sirius says. “As if any of us care that you’re a — ”

“ _Please_ don’t say it,” Remus interrupts. Sirius gapes for a moment, then shuts his mouth. “I don’t think you understand how serious this is.”

“I always take things seriously,” Sirius quips, but he shuts up when Remus frowns at him. 

“Please, this isn’t a joke.”

Sirius sits down next to Remus, back against the door. “I didn’t say it was.” He reaches out to pat Remus on the back, but Remus scoots away as if afraid, so he sits on his hands instead. “Why won’t you talk to us?”

“We can’t be friends,” Remus says. “You’re — you — and I’m — ” He gestures helplessly at himself, fervently hoping Sirius doesn’t notice how blotchy his face is. “Honestly, I’d be surprised to get through school alive — ”

“Don’t say that,” Sirius says, and Remus shoots him a withering glance. “You’ve made it this far, haven’t you?”

Remus feels like he’s going to suffocate. Slowly, painstakingly, he pulls himself to his feet and crosses the dormitory, pushing the window open and leaning out. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he says in a very small voice. “I already worry about it at home, that something terrible will happen and I’ll hurt my parents during the full moon.”

“Well, you seem to be doing fine, seeing as you’ve been here a year and I’ve yet to hear of any werewo — any accidents,” Sirius says.

Remus sighs. It’s so distinctly Sirius to take everything at face value. “Davey Gudgeon,” he says. “He’s still in the Hospital Wing because of what happened with the Whomping Willow.”

“Yeah, well, that’s not your fault, is it? You said so yourself, he got what he deserved for mucking about with a tree that Dumbledore told us to stay away from.”

“The Whomping Willow was planted to hide the spot where I transform,” Remus says. “So I think you will find that I had something to do with it.” 

“You can’t be responsible for other people doing stupid things."

Remus shakes his head. “Werewolves run with each other and not humans for a reason, Sirius. People get hurt.” He fiddles with the drapes, half-aware of Sirius' frustrated pacing behind him, and then jumps when he cries, “Remus, I don’t care about what werewolves have and haven’t done to people! Why won’t you just — it doesn’t matter to me whether you’re a werewolf or not!”

Slowly, Remus turns around from the window. Sirius’ eyes are wide, wild, staring straight into his. 

He realises Sirius is telling the truth. 

It’s the first time someone’s said it and Remus has believed it. His parents say it all the time, that it doesn’t matter what he is, but he knows they spend full moon nights awake, his mother crying in their bedroom and his father standing guard outside the door. Dumbledore’s said it, McGonagall’s said it, even Madam Pomfrey’s said it, but they all have things to lose, things at stake: their jobs, their reputations — they’re the ones who have to dedicate portions of their time to keeping him alive and hidden away from the rest of the students. They all say it so slowly, so calmly, voices measured and eyes sympathetic — not like Sirius, who spits it out without even thinking, face red and shoulders heaving. 

“Sorry,” Sirius says quietly, brushing his hair out of his face. “I didn’t mean to yell at you.”

Remus opens and closes his mouth stupidly for a moment, and then says, “I didn’t think you’d actually want to be friends anymore.”

The corners of Sirius’ lips tug up, a cautious smile. “Course I do,” he says.

“I thought you were just saying it to be nice.”

“Nope.”

“Or because you felt bad.”

“No.”

“Or — ” Remus is going to say _because we’re young and stupid_ , but Sirius cuts him off before he can say it.

“Are we all better?” he asks.

Remus looks at his hopeful smile and his softening gaze. He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, embarrassed. He nods. "Yeah," he says, voice even quieter than before. "We're better."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh also needless to say the semester started and i am getting absolutely served already. i don't want this to become one of those wips that i forget about as soon as school starts (frankly i think about remus lupin FAR too much for that to happen) so i'm aiming for weekly/biweekly updates, probably on fridays/saturdays. fear not for the first month at least, i've written a few chapters ahead. (spoilers: ch 9 is all over the place and for that i'm sorry lol) also i'm planning on doing nanowrimo this year bc...idk it's powerful, so there's that to look forward to :blurryeyes:
> 
> ok. i think that is all i have to say. thank you for reading. i love u all. stay safe babes


	9. viii. the team

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok WOW this semester is absolutely decking me fffs but here's a mediocre update i thought i'd get out before i forget to. lmao. we'll see how the rest of the year goes. please bear with my intense love for cho chang and the resulting over-fixation on her backstory :blurryeyes: also i was proofreading rlly fast while editing and i used the word clowns lmao forgive the linguistic anachronism

_morning light. it doesn’t care what subject it paints: shopping malls, water towers, roadside oil tanks. airplane hangars, generic office buildings — each surface, a canvas, each window, a painting. on clear winter mornings, if only for a moment, everything is radiant._

— grant snider, _morning light_

Madelina puts up the roster for the new team on the bulletin in the common room by the end of the day, and is immediately bombarded by a mix of excited screaming from the new additions (James as Chaser and Marlene as Keeper, and the rest of the second-years, who crowd around them and thump them on the back) and indignant yelling from the ones who didn’t make the cut (a handful of fourth-years and two third-years, one of whom is the player Sirius watched get Bludgered out of the sky). 

“It’s rigged,” one of them whines. “How did _two_ second-years get the spots?”

“Because they were better than you,” Madelina says shortly, swatting him as she picks her way through the common room. One of the irate fourth-years petulantly accuses her of keeping Lucas Thornton on the team because he’s her friend, and she takes off five points on the spot.

“Your own _House_ , Madelina!” James says in mock horror, though he’s grateful for her conviction in her picks for the team. He’s been dreaming about the team and he’s had a good feeling that he could manage to nab the empty Chaser spot, but he’d still felt rather nervous when he’d seen who he needed to beat out at tryouts.

“It’ll be more if these clowns don’t learn to suck it up and stop complaining about how other people are better than them,” Madelina says coolly, shoving past them on her way to meet Alice, Frank, and Lucas, who are standing at the portrait hole looking thoroughly amused by her plight. “Anyway, don’t act as if you haven’t lost us five times as many points in one go. Now move, Potter, so I can get down to dinner before they eat me alive.”

James and his friends watch her go. She’s surprisingly fierce for someone who looks as if she hasn’t grown an inch since the day she turned thirteen. Peter stares after her wistfully until Sirius punches him in the shoulder and says, “Please don’t tell me you’re pining after Madelina Lau.”

“I’m not,” says Peter, rubbing his shoulder. “I just think she’s pretty.”

James makes a face. The bruise on her face from where she was presumably hit by the Whomping Willow last week while trying to drag various students out of harm’s way is fading and has tinged her skin an odd shade of green. “Sure,” he says, wrinkling his nose at Peter. “Way beyond your station, mate.”

Peter wails, “I’m _not_ pining!” again, and Sirius snickers. Even Remus cracks a smile at the desperation in his voice. James breathes a sigh of relief at the sight; he’d come back upstairs from tryouts to find Remus and Sirius lounging about in the common room, whatever feud they were having apparently resolved. _About time_ , he thinks. After a week of the silent treatment, imposed under mysterious circumstances, he’d been starting to forget what Remus sounded like.

The team, however, turns out to be more grueling than James originally thought it would be. Madelina corners him the next day after breakfast to get his timetable so she can arrange practice times, and ends up drawing up an alarmingly complex matrix with different groupings of various team members in a rainbow of colours. It gives James a headache just looking at it, and everyone looks relieved when Lucas Thornton, one of the other Chasers, quietly asks, “Mads, don’t you think this is a bit . . . excessive?”

“No,” she says, distributing copies of the schedule to everyone. “There’s a reason why we never won the Cup when Carter was captaining, and it’s because he was never organised enough. That’s changing this year. No aimlessly goofing about for the first twenty minutes of practice. Every second we’re on the pitch, we’re going to spend remembering what it is we’re trying to do.”

“Anyone ever told you how terrifying you are?” Lucas mutters, flipping his timetable about as if that’ll help him read it better. Madelina only whacks him over the head with an extra roll of parchment and reminds him not to be late.

If the timetables were alarming, practices are downright intimidating. The first one opens with thirty minutes of trying to avoid Bludgers beaten towards them by Madelina herself, who wields a surprising amount of strength for someone with such a slight build. Joseph Nicholls, one of their _actual_ Beaters, rolls out of the line of fire in mid-air and yells, “Madelina, have you ever considered changing positions?”

“Shut up and concentrate,” she shoots back, and James has to drop ten feet at once to avoid the Bludger she sends towards him. 

There’s endless drilling, constant repetitions of flight patterns and formations, and an extra thirty minutes scheduled into each practice for the rest of the Chasers, along with Marlene, to work on goalscoring and Keeping. James hands in an essay that’s missing half the final paragraph in Transfiguration one day, expecting to be told off swiftly by Professor McGonagall, but when he says, “I forgot I’d have Quidditch _and_ Astronomy last night,” McGonagall actually _smiles_ and says she won’t take off points for the missing paragraph, just this once. 

“Don’t put McGonagall and Madelina in a room alone together,” Joseph says, when James brings it up that evening as they’re all changing into their Quidditch robes. “All they’d talk about is Quidditch. Seriously — you wouldn’t believe how many times she’s let Madelina fall asleep in class, just because she knows we had an early morning practice.”

James has a hard time believing that Madelina, with her hard gaze and inexhaustible energy, could ever fall asleep in class, but he catches her nearly falling face-first into her eggs at the breakfast table one morning after an early training session, so he takes Joseph’s word for it and seizes Madelina’s head by her braid before she can suffocate herself with her plate.

“I don’t really understand it,” Remus says one morning in late October, sat up in bed watching James get dressed. He looks rather pale and tired, having recently returned from a trip overseas to celebrate his cousin’s wedding — though James isn’t sure why exactly anyone would take time off school to go to some cousin’s faraway wedding without even knowing said cousin’s name — and, with the sun just barely coming up, he’s the only other person awake in the room.

“What don’t you understand?” says James, picking up his broom from its spot on top of his trunk and checking its tail over for loose twigs. 

Remus gestures vaguely, hand sweeping around in a circle. “This,” he says. “The mania of it all. It’s just a game. Do you really need to be up at — ” he glances at the clock on his bedside “ — a quarter to six, on a _weekend_ of all days, for this?”

“Oh, Remus,” James says. He snatches his wand and rushes to the door; he doesn’t want to incur Madelina’s wrath for showing up even a minute late. “It’s _so much more_ than just a game.”

Remus rolls his eyes and slumps back into bed, drawing up his blankets around his shoulders. “See you at breakfast, then.”

**//**

**_early november 1972_ **

The first match of the year is between Gryffindor and Slytherin, and it’s all anyone can talk about for the entire week leading up to the game. Slughorn jokes about it in Potions, but McGonagall is noticeably more lenient on her assignments, even in her fifth-years’ O.W.L.s class — which everyone again thanks Madelina for — and she tells James and Marlene very seriously one day after class that she hopes she won’t regret the temporary lull in her string of homework. 

“That means you’d best play well,” she says, when Marlene looks at her as if she’s spontaneously grown a third eye, “or I might consider giving more assignments next week to make up for the ones I’ve missed _this_ week.”

“We’ll do our best,” James says hurriedly, seizing Marlene by the arm and practically dragging her out the door. “Come on, Mack, let’s go — we’ll be late for training, ironically enough . . .”

The day of the match is bright and sunny, with just enough wind to be irritating but not enough to actually interfere with play. Despite the news that Davey Gudgeon is still unfit to play — apparently his run-in with the Whomping Willow has done a number on his left eye, and while he can still see, depth perception is no longer a skill he really possesses — leaving the opposite team short a Seeker, Madelina is still in a war-like mood, looking positively murderous as she redoes her braid in a tight plait over her shoulder at breakfast. “Slytherin are playing from their reserve now,” she says in a low voice, rapidly slicing her sausage and skewering it with a sort of fury that is both comical and mildly discomforting to James. 

The reserve Seeker in question is Aster Greengrass, one half of the Greengrass twins, who, when stood next to her brother, is about a head and a half shorter. James looks surreptitiously over his shoulder at her; she’s basking in attention from about half the boys at the Slytherin table, seemingly unperturbed by being called up for what is arguably the most important position on the team. “I hate her,” Madelina continues, “because she is _impossible_ to hate. You would think she’d be a slimebag like the rest of them, and yet — ”

“Drink your coffee and finish your breakfast,” Lucas says lazily, pushing the pot towards her. He glances at James and Marlene, neither of whom have really eaten much besides unbuttered toast. “You too. I couldn’t eat for a whole day leading up to my first match, I was so nervous.”

“You won though, right?” Marlene says, raising her eyebrows.

Lucas nods. “Yeah, and then I threw up and fainted immediately after landing. Go on, eat up.”

Bravado somewhat restored by the mental image of Lucas Thornton collapsing into a pile of his own sick, James steals a kipper off Sirius’ plate, ignoring his friend’s cries of protest. 

“Oh, let him have this,” Remus says, reaching over Peter to get Sirius a replacement. “Here, have another, if it matters to you so much.”

James beams. “See, Remus gets it now!”

“I don’t,” Remus says, “but I think the last thing anyone needs, least of all Madelina, is for you to start rowing over something stupid right now.”

As if on cue, Madelina checks her watch and stands, jerking her head towards to the doors to the Great Hall. Frank and Alice start up a wave of applause along the table, and James lets it follow him all the way out, carrying him down towards the pitch as Madelina delivers one last shouted monologue. 

**//**

The crushing defeat of Slytherin at the hands of the Gryffindor team after what has apparently been a disappointing streak of losses in the last five years leads to a post-match celebration in the common room so fervent that even Patricia Rakepick, normally stoic and serious about her role as Head Girl, partakes. The team, led by Madelina, is greeted by loud whooping and cheering as they climb through the portrait hole, and Madelina flushes bright red when everyone showers her with praise for her performance in the match.

“Good Lord, it wasn’t really anything special, we haven’t won the Cup,” she says, though she accepts the cup of contraband Firewhiskey that Alice Fortescue hands her anyway. “Anyway, it’s like everyone said — Slytherin was down a Seeker, Greengrass is a bit slow on the uptake sometimes — it should be _them_ you’re celebrating, and McKinnon, not me — ”

“Just drink the damn stuff!” Joseph yells, laughing, and everyone cheers again as Madelina holds the Snitch up for all to see while knocking back her drink. 

Next to Sirius, Peter is staring up at the captain with eyes reminiscent of a small dog. “Her nails match the Snitch,” he says, all moon-faced and wide-eyed with admiration.

Sirius looks at Madelina just long enough to confirm that her nails are, indeed, painted gold, and he glances over witheringly at Peter. “Please stop,” he says, “I can’t let you embarrass yourself like this.” He surveys the common room, watching as James, Lucas, and Julieta Nicholls start doing some sort of triumphant war dance in front of the fireplace. “And someone needs to stop _him_ before he trips into the fire and burns off his face.”

“I think it would be funny,” Lily Evans says, throwing herself into the armchair across from them. 

“ _Lily Evans_!” Sirius says, scandalised. “That’s so _mean_.”

She shrugs and gestures at the trio, who have now started violently grabbing and shaking each other by the shoulders while still screaming. Marlene joins them, and Lily sighs. “Idiots,” she says. “See for yourself.” 

Sirius tries to imagine what the scene in the Slytherin common room must be like: subdued, sullen, angry, probably — although he’s not sure how much that differs from their usual atmosphere. Uncle Cygnus and Aunt Druella never let any of their daughters touch a broomstick, let alone ride one — “It’s an inappropriate, unbecoming pastime for a young lady,” Aunt Druella would always say at family dinners — so Narcissa has never had any sort of interest or investment in Quidditch. She hardly cared when Slytherin won the Cup last year. Regulus, who _does_ actually have an appetite for sport — though he keeps it fairly well-hidden from their parents — is probably sulking on his own; Sirius feels a bit guilty for not making much of an effort to look out for his brother, but then he figures that everyone else in the family seems very concerned with making sure Regulus doesn’t fall by the wayside, and that means limiting the time he spend with Sirius and cutting off his contact with Andromeda entirely.

Andromeda — Andromeda also enjoys a bit of sport, but her enjoyment of it has also been restricted from childhood by her parents. If anything, she’s probably knee-deep in revision right now, Sirius figures, or getting drunk and smoking on top of the Astronomy tower. 

Sirius checks the clock; it’s half-past ten. If he knows Andromeda, she won’t have the willpower to study this late on a weekend — Astronomy tower it is, then, he decides, getting up and casting one last look about the common room. Madelina and Lucas are trying to outdrink each other while Patricia pretends she doesn’t see and Joseph Nicholls and Nathaniel Pritchard chant _Mads_! _Mads_! _Mads_! in unison.

Lily narrows her eyes as he walks by. “Where are you off to?” she says suspiciously. “I didn’t think you’d be one to pass on a party.”

“Off for a walk,” Sirius says. “Think I’ll go find Andromeda.”

Lily seems to find this a terrible idea, but she doesn’t try to stop him, only frowns. “On your own head be it,” she says, pulling in her legs a bit from where they’ve been dangling over the arm of her chair so that he doesn’t trip.

The corridors outside are dimly lit and mostly silent except for some of the paintings, who whisper and point as he passes, greeting him as they always have done since he started sneaking out to the Astronomy tower last year. He keeps his footsteps light, reminding himself to skip the trick stair on the staircase up to the fourth floor, and hopes he doesn’t run into either Mrs. Norris or Filch, neither of whom he thinks would be particularly sympathetic to his desire to go find Andromeda for a chat (not that any of the other staff would, either, he thinks, but Slughorn’s always had a soft spot for his family and McGonagall seems to be more than aware of what’s going on, so there's a chance of sweet-talking his way out of that situation). 

There’s a chill in the air when he finally emerges on top of the tower, cold enough to show his breath in a misty white cloud as he stares up at the endless expanse of stars and sky above him. He scoots into the corner between the wall and one of the buttresses and slides to the ground, eyes still fixed on the sky, trying to locate his namesake star the way he always does at the start of class. He glances at the waning moon and his mind flits towards Remus, as it always does when he looks there, wondering, not for the first time, what it’s like to be him. 

There’s something comforting about looking at the sky when he’s alone. When he and Regulus were younger, his mother would always take them into the backyard to look at the stars, reciting their names and the constellations they belonged to and the stories behind them. “It’s important you know where you come from,” she always said, as if their family had all descended from the heavens themselves. There was nothing fun about it then, nothing really magical about the way she would slap them upside the head when they answered a question incorrectly, or confused the story of Callisto with that of Cassiopeia. But now, alone at the top of the castle, shivering slightly in the cold, Sirius thinks there’s something beautiful about the stars, the way they twinkle and shine and probably will do so until long after he’s gone.

Andromeda doesn’t actually make an appearance, so Sirius decides it’s getting too cold for him to stay out without a cloak any longer. He’s on his way back to Gryffindor tower when someone behind him says, “Oi! Black, is it? What’re you doing out of bed?”

Sirius turns around to find Edgar Bones striding towards him, wand in hand, when suddenly Andromeda shows up from around the corner and, spotting him, says, “Oh, calm down, Ed, it’s just my cousin.”

“I _know_ he’s your cousin,” Bones says shortly. “What’s he doing out at this hour? Curfew was hours ago.”

“Sneaking food from the kitchens for the party that’s going on in his common room, probably,” Andromeda says. She looks tired, stressed — whether from N.E.W.T.s or the general unpleasantry of having to be around Narcissa, Sirius isn’t sure.

“Tempting, but no,” Sirius says, turning out his pockets just to prove that they’re empty. He tries to figure out a way to tell Andromeda he was looking for her without making it awkward in front of someone else. “I’m heading back to my House. Don’t get your wand in a knot.”

Bones lowers his wand. “You’re lucky _she’s_ here,” he says, pointing at Andromeda, “or I’d take points off you.”

“Oh, please,” Andromeda says, with a dramatic eye roll. “You don’t even take points off kids when they deserve it.” She prods Sirius with her finger. “Come on, I’ll walk with you back to your House.”

“Touchy, isn’t he?” Sirius remarks once they’re out of earshot. 

Andromeda sighs. “Sorry,” she says. “Ever since that incident with Davey and the Whomping Willow — McGonagall’s been on us to be a lot more strict. We got an extra patrol added every week, so someone can watch the Entrance Hall.”

Sirius’ thoughts drift, again, to what Remus told him about the Whomping Willow. “What actually happened?” he asks. “None of the Prefects in our House will tell us.”

“Bunch of idiots tried to touch the trunk,” Andromeda says simply. “They’re so stupid, honestly, I don’t know what they were thinking — a whole _group_ of them, according to Dolohov — d’you see, Madelina Lau got clubbed round the head by one of the branches, trying to pull Yaxley away before it did to him what it did to Davey, probably would’ve done worse if Flitwick and Sprout hadn’t been there. Fei from Ravenclaw got fully knocked out. It was bad.” 

“Did you really hit Narcissa?” Sirius asks.

Andromeda looks at him sharply. “Who told you that?” she demands, but she’s grinning. “She was slagging off Muggle-borns. Just the usual stuff — _he doesn’t understand_ , _he doesn’t know_ — as if he hasn’t gone through N.E.W.T.s just like the rest of us.” She rolls her eyes again. “Anyway, what’re you doing out of bed?”

“Looking for you,” Sirius says.

Andromeda looks pleasantly surprised at his response. “Really?” she says. “That’s nice of you.”

“Well, I can’t really bear to talk to Narcissa, because she’s so weepy all the time, and everyone’s made it clear I’m supposed to have as little contact with Regulus as possible.”

“I know.” Andromeda sighs. “It’s hard, isn’t it?”

“I mean, I think you’ve got it a bit worse,” Sirius says drily.

“Maybe,” she says, “but the hopes of the whole family aren’t exactly riding on me, and they never have.” They skip over the trick step. “Sorry I missed your birthday, by the way. I would’ve come over, but Narcissa . . .”

Sirius shakes his head. “’S okay.” He considers, for a moment, telling her about how his parents destroyed last year’s gift, but she seems a little quiet, so he holds back. They walk in heavy silence until the reach the portrait of the Fat Lady, and Andromeda turns to look at him in a sort of awkward, half-sisterly way. 

“You’re taking care of yourself?” she says, hands on his shoulders.

“Yeah.” It’s him that should be asking that question of her, he thinks, not the other way around. “You?”

Andromeda smiles weakly. “Yeah,” she says, although her voice cracks a bit at the end. “I’ve got Ted to take care of me now. I’ll be going back to his for the holidays. Don’t worry about me, then, just watch yourself, all right?”

Sirius nods. It’s not really what he expected of a conversation with her, but he’s glad to have had an opportunity to exchange words anyway. “See you, then.”

“Night,” Andromeda agrees, turning around and heading back for the stairs. “Tell your friend Potter he flew pretty well today for me, yeah?” And as she turns the corner and descends the stairs, Sirius is fairly certain he sees her wipe a tear from her eye. 

**//**

**_late november 1972_ **

Remus knew, going into the Shrieking Shack last night, that the full moon this month would be awful, but he largely underestimated just _how_ awful it would be. 

He peels his eyes open and inhales a healthy amount of dust from the floor, already bracing himself for the inevitable wave of nausea. Already he can feel a cracked rib on his right side as he tenderly pokes about his body for new injuries and fresh wounds, and though there are thankfully no new scratches on his face, his eyes feel like they’re about to burn into nothing.

 _Not too much worse than the usual then_ , he thinks. He swallows a mouthful of bile, closes his eyes, and waits for Madam Pomfrey to come fetch him.

**//**

“He looks awful.”

“ _James_!”

“Don’t look at me like that, it’s true — look at him. He looks like he’s stuck his head in one of Snivellus’ nasty cauldrons.”

“Eugh, gross.”

“He’s just ill, that’s all.”

“He’s _always_ ill!”

“You would be, too, if you worked as hard as he does. Did you see him earlier this week? He’s about a week ahead in Transfiguration. He’s just tired, I think.”

“ _I’m_ tired, too, and even I don’t look like that after practising in the rain.”

“It’s different, though, isn’t it? You don’t get sick as easily as we do.”

“What? Pure-bloods get sick all the time, Peter, where’d you hear that nonsense from?”

“Well, _I_ , for one, still think it’s exhaustion.”

“Don’t be stupid, it can’t be exhaustion. He’s always like this. Maybe you’re right, Peter, he just has a weak constitution.”

In his potion-induced haze and lingering post-full moon lethargy, Remus struggles to place the voices he hears. He tries to say something, but his breath catches in his throat, and all he manages is, “Hhrrgk.”

“Shut up, you two, or Madam Pomfrey will kick us out,” Sirius hisses. Remus feels someone gently nudging his shoulder. “Hey, Remus. You awake?”

“I am now,” Remus rasps, blinking awake slowly and wincing at the late afternoon light streaming in through the windows. The nausea hits him almost immediately, and he gestures as violently as he can for someone to bring him a bowl, to which all three of his friends give a sort of blank, uncomprehending stare.

“Going — throw up,” he chokes out, gesturing again.

“ _Ohhhhhh_ ,” Sirius says, pushing Peter out of the way and shoving a basin in Remus’ hands. “Why didn’t you say?”

Remus glares up at him, eyes watering as he spits out stomach acid and a half-digested piece of toast from the night before. 

Sirius just grins. “Keep your head on. Only joking.”

“You all right, mate?” James says, when Remus has finished emptying the contents of his stomach and slumps back, still cradling the basin. “Only I was just telling Sirius and Peter here, you look bloody awful.”

“I know,” Remus says. “I heard.” He glances up at Sirius. “How’d you get past Madam Pomfrey?”

“Begged on our knees,” James says casually.

“Told her we wouldn’t disturb you,” Sirius says. 

Remus snorts. “Well, you failed that one.”

“It’s not our fault, is it? Anyway, you’ve slept long enough, I should think.” Sirius pauses and watches as Remus furrows his brow, looking about for a clock. “Remus, it’s Wednesday. You were out all of yesterday.”

“We were worried,” Peter says, his face so serious it’s almost comical. Peter is not one for gravitas.

Remus throws a hand across his face. The only times he ever sleeps through an entire day after the full moon are when he’s at home and can afford to do so. He presses a few fingers to his ribs and finds, to his relief, that they’ve been mended, even if they do feel sore and it hurts a bit to breathe. “Christ,” he mutters, “I must have missed a lot in class.”

James screws up his face in mock thought. “Not really,” he says, “unless you count Slughorn getting all misty-eyed over how wonderful Snivelly’s Strengthening Solution was in Potions.”

Remus groans. He really can’t afford to miss Potions, he thinks miserably, it's probably his worst class, but at the same time, the tight ache in his joints suggests he wouldn’t have gotten anything out of it even if he had been. 

Sirius pokes his shoulder again. “It’s fine, really,” he says softly. “You can take our notes. Merlin knows we’ve copied off you enough to make up for this once.” Remus catches him staring, eyes roaming over his face to check for new scratches, and fights the urge to squirm. It’s odd, having someone who knows. He yawns, and Sirius seems to pick up on the hint, because he says, “Well, we’ll leave you to sleep some more, then,” and tugs on his friends’ arms to leave.

“Feel better,” Peter says.

James nods and follows. “See you tomorrow, hopefully, Remus.”

Remus nods sleepily and watches his friends disappear through the curtains. He pretends he doesn’t see Sirius sticking his head back in to wave goodbye.

**//**

**_early december 1972_ **

It’s about half-past three in the morning when Sirius decides that sleep is a lost cause and emerges from his bed. Maybe he’ll get a head start on his History of Magic essay, he thinks, tucking his wand into his pocket and sighing. He wishes the holidays, so he wouldn’t have to think about how he could be doing homework while he lazes about, doing nothing. 

He turns around to gather his schoolbooks and parchment from the top of his trunk and nearly jumps out of his skin when he sees Remus sitting next to the window, knees drawn up to his chest. It’s been a little over a week since the full moon, but Remus still looks a bit worn and weary. Sirius feels a little awkward when he looks at him; this is now the second full moon since he’s talked to Remus about being a werewolf, and he feels almost guilty when he sees the scars littering Remus’ face, like he’s somehow the cause of it. Remus apparently recognises this expression, though, because he smiles thinly at Sirius and whispers, “It’s okay.”

 _Couldn’t sleep_? Sirius mouths back. Remus shrugs first, then shakes his head, so Sirius points at the dormitory doors and says, voice low in the quiet of the dark dormitory, “Common room.”

The common room is deserted — not that Sirius really expected anyone to be here at this hour — and they take up the seats by the fireplace, Remus sitting primly on the floor in front of the sofa and Sirius kicking his legs over the side of an armchair. He tosses his books down on the floor next to him and stares at Remus. “So what’re you still doing up?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Remus says evasively. Sirius doesn’t bite, though; his upbringing has ensured that he’s inherited the sort of prying, challenging stare characteristic of all Blacks. He keeps looking at Remus until the other boy finally sighs and says, “Weird dream.”

Sirius raises his eyebrows. “Weird dream or _bad_ dream?”

Remus’ frown deepens. “Bad dream,” he says. “But it’s nothing new. I’m not a child.” He glances back up at Sirius, who averts his eyes, embarrassed. The way Remus talks sometimes, it's as if he's been alive for centuries. “It’s your turn to tell me what you’re doing awake, now.”

“Thinking, mostly,” he replies easily, because it’s true. It’s hard to sleep when your brain won’t shut up.

It’s Remus’ turn to raise his eyebrows. “About?”

Sirius shrugs nonchalantly. “You know,” he says, his customary answer for these sorts of questions. It occurs to him that Remus probably doesn’t know, because Remus’ family seems sweet and kind and loving, if small and sheltered, but he doesn’t really feel like elaborating. There’s too much material and history to wade through; Sirius wouldn’t know where to begin. His thoughts of late have been mostly occupied by Regulus — how he’s doing, who he spends his time around when he’s trapped in the dingy Slytherin dungeons, what rot his head’s being filled with — but there’s other stuff there, too. Things like whether Aunt Druella can eat a meal without bursting into tears at the sight of Andromeda’s empty chair, whether Andromeda and Ted are even safe, whether he’ll return home for the winter holidays to be greeted with yet another intrusive conversation with his parents (his worries as of late have mostly involved Andromeda).

But sometime over the past few days, Sirius has realised there’s more at stake with the Legilimency than just Andromeda. There’s no telling what his parents will find if they pry into his mind again, now that he knows for certain that Remus is a werewolf, and if they were to find out there would probably be a disastrous series of far-reaching consequences. He knows there’s a way to keep his parents from being able to see into his mind — Bellatrix has mentioned it, and he’s also seen it in that _Against the Dark Arts_ book that Remus is sometimes perusing through — but he isn’t exactly sure how to approach _that_ whole problem, so Sirius just resigns himself to not thinking about it as best he can and hopes this is enough. 

Remus is watching him very carefully, as if not really sure what to say in response. (Sirius can’t really blame him.) Finally, he speaks. “I’ve been thinking about telling James and Peter.”

Sirius, who is still somewhat mulling over the hurdle in his life that is the upcoming holiday break, glances up. “Tell them what?”

Remus’ gaze hardens. “Are you thick?” he says.

“Oh,” Sirius says, blinking. “That.”

“Yes,” Remus says, rolling his eyes, “ _that_.”

“Well, do you want to?”

Remus shrugs. “Not particularly. I feel weird about other people knowing,” he says. Sirius is about to say _then don’t tell them_ , but something about the look Remus throws him suggests that he should maybe shut up. “But then again, I told _you_ , and the world didn’t end.”

“You didn’t exactly tell me as much as I forced it out of you,” Sirius points out.

“Yes,” Remus agrees. “It just feels strange that only you know. Like when you all came to see me in the Hospital Wing. I can’t keep make you hide things for me.”

 _I don’t exactly have a choice either way_ , Sirius thinks wryly, but he decides to keep this to himself. Remus has enough on his plate without worrying about whether some total strangers are going to find out his deep dark secret.

Remus is still monologuing, though it’s mostly under his breath. “Sorry,” he says to Sirius. “I just — it’s something I have to figure out by myself, I suppose, but it’s nice to hear myself think.” He scratches his head. “Do you think either of them know?”

“That you’re a werewolf?” Sirius asks, ignoring the way Remus grimaces at the word. “Peter definitely doesn’t. James might, but if he suspects anything, he hasn’t said anything to me.”

Remus hums and hugs his knees to his chest, his eyes fixed on the fireplace grate. “Do you think they’ll mind?”

“ _Mind_?” Sirius repeats dumbly. “Remus, listen to yourself. You’re talking about James and Peter. They’ll probably go mad with delight.”

In the end, Remus decides he’ll wait until after the holidays and see how he feels about telling James and Peter once they’re back. It takes him nearly a whole hour to reach this conclusion — altogether a waste of time, in Sirius’ opinion, though he doesn’t voice this opinion — and just as Remus says, “I’ll tell them next month, maybe,” there’s a sharp thumping on the stairs that shuts both him and Sirius up. 

Madelina comes racing into the common room, freshly cleaned boots in hand and her broomstick in the other. She draws up short at the sight of Remus and Sirius. “Black. Lupin, is it?” Remus nods. “What are you two doing down here at this hour?”

“What are _you_ doing?” Sirius says, eyeing her Tutshill Tornadoes jersey warily. He notices that Remus has become very fidgety, worried about whether she’s overheard anything and how much, though Sirius very much doubts that Madelina pays anything that doesn’t concern Quidditch much mind this early in the morning. 

“None of your cheek,” she says, though it’s cheerful and good-natured, not in the same way that Walburga might snap at him. “ _I_ have to go practise.” She readjusts her broom on her shoulder, looking up at it affectionately before frowning at Sirius. “You’d better make sure Potter’s not late.”

“As if James would ever voluntarily miss Quidditch practice or let down the team,” Remus says.

“Betrayal can come from anyone,” Madelina says dramatically, checking her watch. “Well, I’ll see you at breakfast, boys. Go wake James up for me if he doesn’t come through here by half-five. Ta-ta, then.” 

Sirius stares after her. “It’s barely _five_. How early does she wake up?” he says incredulously, wondering what exactly it is she runs on. With his measly two hours of fitful sleep, he has a feeling he might need it later today.

He considers going back upstairs and trying to get in another hour or two of sleep — and Remus looks like he could use it, too — but they’ve gotten so comfortable in their positions in front of the fire that he can’t really be bothered to move, and there’s something fun about being the first ones awake in the common room, watching as the rest of the tower comes to life. People-spotting is not exactly a pastime approved by his parents; there’s something wonderful and innocent about lounging about with Remus as they watch the other students coming down the stairs, getting odd looks from a few. It’s mostly other members of the Quidditch team — first Lucas Thornton, looking irritated at being awake this early on a Saturday morning; then Julieta Nicholls, followed shortly by her brother and Nathaniel Pritchard from the other side; then James, who exclaims, “ _There_ you are, you both were gone when I woke up!” in an accusatory voice before rushing off; and finally Marlene, who looks even more annoyed than Lucas and climbs out the portrait hole without so much as a glance at them, leaving the common room in silence again. As the sun starts to peek through the windows, more students start showing up, some of them with early morning letters to be sent, others clearly with revision on their minds. Patricia Rakepick and her friend Sinead Connelly trudge down the stairs, a pile of books between them, and settle at one of the tables in the corner to work; a few other seventh-years join them minutes later.

“Reckon that’ll be us in five years?” Sirius says, tipping his chin up at them.

Remus blinks out of his dazed reverie, obviously less thrilled at the prospect of having gone another night without sleep. He twists around to look at the seventh-years exchanging past papers and marking up each other’s work. “No,” he says. “You and James would never be caught dead studying so diligently.”

Sirius tries to pretend to be offended, but Remus grins at him so brightly that he gives up and rolls off the chair to his feet. “Come on,” he says, offering Remus a hand up. “Let’s go get dressed and wake Peter. I’m starving.”


	10. ix. birmingham

_with the knowledge of her aloneness came the rush of self-declaration:_ i will not be nothing.

— robin mckinley, _deerskin_

**_22 december 1972, the night before holiday break_ **

When Lily was much younger, before she even knew about the existence of magic and she and Petunia still went to the same school, holding hands to cross the street, there was a group of older boys who would loiter around the corner of their street and harass anyone who walked by, from the rest of their schoolmates to old Mrs. Davidson as she walked her dogs. Petunia would always wrinkle her nose and tighten her grip on Lily’s hand, ducking her head as she marched resolutely by, but Lily had trouble understanding, as many children who grow up lovingly protected and sheltered from the ugliness of the real world, what exactly these boys got out of heckling passersby.

“Nothing,” Petunia had told her, and their mother had agreed.

“They’ll grow out of it,” she’d said, waving her hand. “Just ignore them like Petunia does, and you’ll be fine.”

But then there was one day when everyone was out on the school field, and one of the boys from the street corner pulled on one of Lily’s braids and called her a variety of names. Lily had closed her eyes and clenched her fists, and then opened her eyes again, seconds later, to find the boy doubled over on the ground, crying for help. Her teacher had refused to believe that she hadn’t actually punched him (though Lily thought she would very much have liked to). “You need to learn to block them out,” she’d said sternly, in that way that many teachers do when they complacently think bullying will resolve itself. “They’re just white noise.”

_Just white noise_. That’s what Lily has been doing since, turning anyone who annoys her into _just white noise._ It helps that her world already exists in a state of ongoing white noise about half the time; sometimes she can drown people out just by imagining herself in a crowd, surrounded by the inseparable mix of sounds. It’s a strategy that’s useful in a variety of situations — when Petunia starts being difficult, when James Potter acts up in class to the adoring delight of Sirius Black, when Mary and Marlene get too chatty at meals. What Lily is less great at is distinguishing between the white noise of the outside world and the white noise of her own thoughts. When the world becomes too loud and the murmur rises to a dull roar, she finds herself responding to thoughts that haven’t been voiced, people who haven’t called her name. There are times when she thinks someone’s said something, and then she looks about and realises it’s just her own brain speaking to her, the only voice she can always count on to be heard. 

To Lily, this has never been much of a problem, either before or after she started attending Hogwarts. Sure, conversations at meals can be a bit of a nightmare, between the noise and some people’s (read: James Potter and Peter Pettigrew) proclivity to talk with their mouths full, and yes, she has to try a little harder to keep track of everything whenever they’re doing practical exercises and the room is filled with twenty people repeating the same spell over and over, but for the most part, no one’s a jerk to her about it. If they think it’s sad or unfortunate that half the stuff going on around her comes across as indistinguishable fuzz — well, they don’t say it, at least not to her face. She doesn’t find herself wishing she could hear better the way she knows Petunia wishes she could do magic.

But now, sat in the Great Hall, surrounded by an ominous buzz, Lily finds herself more annoyed with her right ear than she’s been in a while. She leans in closer to Marlene, Mary, and Dorcas, but they’re talking so fast and so quietly in comparison to the rest of the Hall that trying to figure out what they’re saying is near impossible and she gives up. It’s been nearly forty-five minutes since the Prefects all burst into their dormitories and dragged them out of bed to assemble in the Great Hall. Five more minutes won’t kill her, she thinks, looking expectantly at Dumbledore’s empty seat in the middle of the staff table.

It’s more like another fifteen minutes before Dumbledore strides into the Hall, Professor McGonagall behind him and Edgar and Patricia by her side; the two of them nod once at each other, then split off to their respective tables, leaving Dumbledore and McGonagall to make what seems like an endlessly long trek up to the front table. The Hall falls silent as they pass, and Lily finds herself holding her breath as if it would be rude to exhale until Dumbledore has given his permission. 

What has happened is this: an explosion has taken place at a shopping centre in Birmingham, and while the Muggle police and news are struggling to place what exactly has happened, the Ministry of Magic has jumped into action, with all sorts of Statute of Secrecy protocols and Aurors and a lot of other things Lily doesn’t quite understand, either because she hasn’t learnt enough about them or because the words are too foreign to pick up from the carefully edited context that Dumbledore is feeding them. 

“While the Ministry of Magic has become involved,” Dumbledore is saying, when Lily stops trying to parse his last sentence — she really wishes the boys at the next table over would shut up — “there is no reason to believe at this time that this is anything other than an unfortunate accident.” There’s a slightly sour look to his face that suggests he doesn’t quite agree, but Dumbledore plows on. “That said,” he continues, “the magnitude and severity of this incident is not to be diminished and should be treated with the utmost sensitivity. Students wishing to speak to any family members in Birmingham should seek their Head of House once dismissed in order to use the Floo Network.”

Lily glances over at the far end of the Hall, where Sev is sat, frowning down at the table in front of him. She wonders if he’s thinking the same thing as her, that it’s a decidedly odd sensation to be packing for your return home one moment and then told that a major explosion has taken place not thirty minutes out from your village the next. _Probably not_ , she decides. Maybe this is normal for him. She doesn't know what constitutes normal, has no benchmark as far as magic is concerned. She's not about to start a conversation with Sev about this, not when she doesn't know where it'll lead.

Professor McGonagall takes over from Dumbledore to give instructions on how everyone is to return straight to their common rooms, and which Prefects will be where, and who should go see whom if they’d like to do this or that. She dismisses everyone, and all the students leap up from their tables in a clamour, heads pressed together in little groups as they speculate wildly over what must have happened. Lily feels slightly sick, the way some of the students appear so callous, unconcerned by it, the way a few of them treat this like a sporting event. _Are_ random explosions normal? How often are the Ministry called in to explain what the Muggle police can't?

“Come on, Lily,” Marlene says, tugging on her arm and heading off up the stairs after Lucas Thornton, who looks a bit stricken but not as much so as Madelina. He whispers something in her ear and she speeds off towards Professor McGonagall’s office, obviously trying and failing to keep her face blank. “Her mum works for the Ministry, I think. Merlin, what a thing to happen. And right before the holidays, too . . .”

There’s more of the same kind of dull buzz in the common room when they arrive, students all huddled around each other for reassurance. The noise is almost unbearable to Lily; she tries to imagine herself dimming the volume and looks around for visual cues instead. Julieta Nicholls has produced a radio from her dormitory and is scanning through channels — “You won’t get any useful news, not from any Muggle stations,” her brother Joseph keeps saying — while a small crowd gathers around them like birds at a feeder. Alice Fortescue is going about the room offering hugs to anyone who looks like they need one; she pats Lily and Mary on the back with a rather strained look on her face but doesn’t say anything else. Thornton stands by the portrait hole, waiting for Madelina, and when she comes, Lily isn’t sure whether the expression on her face is one of relief or increased worry. Thornton gives her a quick sort of half-hug before the pair of them join the rest of the Prefects in the corner, folding their arms and whispering amongst themselves. The boys — Potter, Pettigrew, Lupin, and Black — all head straight for the stairs, one after another, without a single word to anyone else in the common room.

 _That’s a first_ , Lily thinks, staring after them. She’s a bit disappointed — she wanted to catch Remus, seeing as he’s the only other person her age besides Mary who has even an inkling of what it’s like to be a Muggle. For what might be the first time in her life, Lily wishes she had someone to tell her what to think and feel right now. Is she supposed to be interested in the news? Or worried? Or scared? Is Patricia Rakepick’s cool attitude supposed to be her benchmark, or should she be like Madelina, going to McGonagall’s office to call up her mum just to ask if their Aunt Shirley is still living in Birmingham?

“At least we’re going home tomorrow,” Mary says grimly.

Dorcas catches Lily’s eye. “Aren’t you from Birmingham?”

“Nearby,” Lily says, “so not quite.”

Dorcas nods thoughtfully. “Take care over the holidays, won’t you?”

Lily’s about to ask what exactly that’s supposed to mean, and how is she supposed to “take care” over the holidays, but before she can do so, Dorcas bids them good night, and disappears up the stairs.

**//**

**_11 january 1973, the end of holiday break_ **

Everyone is still reeling from the events of December when school resumes. Standing on the station with her parents and Petunia scowling at the mish-mash of trunks and broomsticks and owls, Lily can see pairs of wizards in Ministry robes all along the platform, talking casually but glancing around wearily at everyone who passes by. Some of them are too young to have children, others too old, and Lily knows, somewhere in the back of her mind, that these aren’t parents here to see their children off.

“Goodness,” Lily’s mother says, “I don’t remember it being this crowded last year.”

Lily shrugs. She still isn't sure, really, what the explosion in December was all about. The news stations at home only said it was a terrorist attack of unknown origins, and her family accepted that explanation just fine. It seemed extreme to take out a subscription to _The Daily Prophet_ just for information on one thing that might just turn out to be, as Dumbledore said, a freak accident. Just because the Muggle police couldn’t figure out the cause and the Ministry was dispatched — that doesn’t really mean anything, does it, Lily tells herself. If it’s been investigated, then that’s the best anyone could hope for.

Her parents say their goodbyes (Petunia forces out a sort of grudging, "See you, then") and she climbs onto the train, making her way down the corridor to find Sev and say hello. He’d written to her over the holidays to apologise for not being able to meet with her — his parents had apparently separated, he said, on a temporary break, and his mother had taken him to her new place in Leicester. Lily had been annoyed with the fact that he’d probably known he wouldn’t be in Cokeworth for the holidays for a while now and simply hadn’t bothered to tell her at school, but in the end decided that maybe it was for the best. If anyone was going to offer her an explanation on the incident in Birmingham, she would rather it not come from Sev, and she gets the feeling that’s where the conversation would’ve veered if they'd seen each other over the break.

“Evans!” someone says, and she wheels around, trying to see who called her name. She realises, a second too late, that the voice belongs to one James Potter, and she sees him hanging out the compartment she just passed, waving to her. “Evans, come over here.”

Lily sighs. “What do you want, Potter?” she asks, squaring her jaw and stomping back towards his carriage. The rest of his friends — Black, Remus, and Pettigrew — are all there, looking far too conspiratorial for her liking. “What is it?”

“Heard anything over the holidays?”

“About what?”

“Birmingham,” Potter says, looking far too cheerful for Lily’s liking. “You’re from thereabouts, aren’t you?”

“How would I know anything about Birmingham?” Lily says coldly. “My whole family are Muggles.”

Potter’s face falls. “Oh. Sorry for asking. I didn’t know.”

 _Of course you didn’t_ , Lily thinks bitterly. She glances at the rest of the boys in the carriage, who are all looking up at her expectantly, save for Remus, who is staring at his feet. “Well, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll go find my friends now.”

She’s pretty sure she hears Black say something nasty about _Snivellus_ , but it comes across as only a whisper, so she decides it’s another trick her brain is playing on her and turns her back on Potter, pushing all thoughts of Birmingham out of her mind.

**//**

**_late january 1972_ **

Sev meets Lily inside the courtyard that looks out onto the grounds and the Forbidden Forest just beyond, his cloak tugged up past his chin. He doesn’t say anything at first, and Lily sincerely hopes this is not going to be another of those conversations where she has to do all the work again. 

“Sorry about your parents,” she says, to break the silence.

Sev shrugs. “My mum doesn’t deserve my dad anyway. It’s about time something changed.”

Lily hums. She doesn’t know much about Sev’s home life, except that they don’t go to his house often for a reason. She’s had exactly one interaction with Tobias Snape, when she walked home with Sev and met him at the door, and it didn’t exactly leave her wanting more. “I missed you, though.”

Sev glances up at her sceptically. “Did you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean? Of course I did.” She nudges him lightly. “You’d say the same, if it was _you_ holed up with Tuney the whole time. How was Leicester?”

“Fine,” Sev says, with a tightness about his mouth that suggests she should leave the topic alone. A familiar sensation of exasperation washes over Lily. “Did you hear anything more about the incident in Birmingham?”

Lily glares. “No. How would I? Why’s that all anyone wants to talk about? I don’t want to talk about it. Dumbledore would tell us if there was something else we needed to know.”

Sev balks at her outburst. “Okay,” he says, his gaze dropping. They both stare at the ground, until he jostles her arm back. “I missed you over the holidays, too,” he says.

A tiny smile creeps its way onto Lily’s face. For a moment, they’re ten years old again, standing on the grassy knoll under their tree, making flowers bloom in their hands and changing the direction of the wind. They’re still thinking of Hogwarts in the distant future, free of any expectations. Just two ten year-old kids.

**//**

**_mid-february 1972_ **

The next time Lily manages to have a conversation with Sev lasting more than just the cursory _hi_ as they pass each other in the hallways is during Potions, and it’s considerably less pleasant. Normally, she and Sev share one side of the work bench, with Mary and Marlene on the other side (although neither of them ever look particularly thrilled about it) and their backs to Leon Mulciber and Josefina Dolohov, but today both Marlene and Josefina are in the Hospital Wing with the flu, so Professor Slughorn combines their tables, congratulating himself on his innovative solution.

“Leon, I expect you’ll do much better today,” Slughorn says cheerfully, “seeing as you’re joining a table with two of my most talented students!”

Lily, who is hurriedly moving her books to the other side of the workbench to spare Mary the indignity of having to work next to Mulciber, glances over at Sev. He’s already frowning at his empty cauldron, book open in front of him, completely oblivious to Slughorn’s praise. Mulciber, too, doesn’t bothering replying to Slughorn, but he rolls his eyes as he calibrates his scales — incorrectly, Lily notes — and starts measuring out ingredients for his Sleeping Draught.

“And as always,” Slughorn continues, turning about to address the rest of the class, “five points to whoever brews me the best potion.” He gives Sev another meaningful look — which Sev misses — and then lets his gaze linger over the table where Potter and the rest of his band of idiots are standing with equal parts resignation and hope. 

Though she’s quite sure no one at Potter’s workbench is being singled out for their prowess at brewing potions, Lily can’t help but feel a little irritated at not being eyed as a possible contender here. Last year, when they shared Potions with Hufflepuff, Slughorn had been immensely impressed with her, crowing about natural ability whenever they did practical work, but ever since they’ve started taking Potions with the Slytherins, Slughorn’s interest in her has waned somewhat, Sev has been the main object of his praise. Lily can’t exactly blame either of them — Sev _is_ a whiz at Potions, at least from what she knows about the subject — but still. The sudden loss of constant approval makes her a bit put out, even if she doesn’t really want to admit it. 

With another sidelong, slightly more determined, glance at Sev, Lily throws a handful of wormwood leaves into her mortar.

Mary keeps up a light stream of chatter as they work — she and Marlene usually take this class in stride, stirring their cauldrons without looking and laughing off their mistakes, while Lily and Sev each keep watchful eyes on their own potions — and Lily nods and hums along, though she’s not really paying attention to anything but what colour her potion is turning. She pauses for a moment to assess the rest of the room: Sev, too, is watching his cauldron with an expression of utmost concentration that indicates Mulciber’s jabber is passing through one ear and out the other without any sort of comprehension. 

“ _Very_ promising,” Slughorn remarks as he passes by their table, peering into Sev’s cauldron. He wrinkles his nose slightly at Mulciber’s half-brewed potion, and his forehead creases slightly at the sight of Mary’s, but he gives a pleasant nod at Lily’s before moving on, and Lily crushes her Flobberworm with renewed vigour. 

“Mine’s not darkening,” Mary says when there’s less than ten minutes left of class, stirring her cauldron.

Lily cranes her neck to get a better look, and, seeing that her friend’s potion is still a pale lilac, shrugs and returns to her own. “Too much lavender?” she suggests, without much thought. “Or maybe you didn’t grind it fine enough. It’s a bit finicky, this recipe.”

“ _Yours_ looks fine,” Mary says, looking round the table. “Ah, well. It’s not like I was expecting those five points, anyway, not up against you and Snape.”

Sev’s lips give a begrudging twitch at the corners, but Mulciber scoffs. “I don’t think you’d come close to winning points for your potions even _with_ Severus out of the way, MacDonald.”

Lily stands on tiptoes to catch a glimpse of what’s inside Mulciber’s cauldron, and sees that it’s even further off the correct shade of purple than Mary’s. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

Mulciber glares. “I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

“Well, neither did Mary.”

Sev, who has passed the entire class in total silence, frowns. “You’re stirring in the wrong direction, Leon,” he says, sighing and giving Lily a look that clearly says to drop it before things can escalate. 

As if to emphasise the point, Slughorn claps his hands together. “That’s it, then,” he calls, “time’s up! Wands down, heat off, stop stirring! I said _stop stirring_ , Mr. Wilkes. I’ll be coming around now to have a look at everyone’s work.”

Lily folds her arms and continues eyeing Mulciber dourly as Slughorn passes up and down the rows of benches, tutting and humming over each one. He grimaces as he glances at Pettigrew’s potion, deems Potter’s and Remus’ passable — Remus has a look of extreme relief that suggests this is more than he was hoping for — and jiggles Black’s cauldron slightly with a curious expression before making his way back over to Lily’s bench. 

“Heated just a bit too long, Miss MacDonald,” he says, brushing past, and Mary just shrugs and grins. Slughorn barely pays attention to Mulciber’s bright blue concoction, much to Lily’s delight, but when he gets to Sev’s, his eyes light up. 

“Wonderful, as always, Severus!” he booms, dipping a vial into Sev’s cauldron and holding it up to the light. Lily shifts slightly, frowning, and then immediately berates herself. She needs to stop being so petty, she thinks, as Slughorn now leans down over her work. This isn’t a competition, and it’s certainly not Sev’s fault if he’s grown up with a witch for a mother who, according to him, taught him most of the fundamentals of potions-brewing by the time he was eight. Out of the corner of her eye, she catches sight of Black making fake gagging motions, and scowls.

“Well, well, well,” Slughorn murmurs. He reaches into his pocket for another vial — the indication of his approval — and Lily’s heart leaps; it’s a gesture she hasn’t seen towards much of her work this year. “I think, Severus, that you have met your match in Miss Evans today.” He holds the two vials up next to each other. “They’re nearly identical in quality, I’d say. Take five points each, you two!”

Lily beams. Sev smiles back her, his mouth pressed in a thin line. _Congratulations_ , he mouths.

It’s as they’re leaving the classroom, though, on their way to lunch, that she hears it: Mulciber, somewhere behind her, sneering, “I thought you’d do better than some Mudblood when it came to brewing potions, Severus.”

For a moment, Lily wonders if she’s made it up. There’s enough noise going on outside in the corridor and in the general bustle of students trying to get to lunch that she thinks, _Maybe I imagined it._ It wouldn’t be the first time. But then she looks up at Mary, and Mary stares back, stricken, and _then_ she hears, directly in her left ear, “Oi! Mulciber! That’s bang out of order!”

Next to her, James Potter has paused in his quest to get out the door in order to confront Mulciber, and Lily groans internally. She just wants to enjoy the bliss of Slughorn’s praise and the points she’s won before Potter loses them all over again; wheeling around, she tugs sharply on his arm and snaps, “Leave it, Potter.”

Mulciber only laughs. “Touchy, aren’t we?” he says, and pushes past them into the hallway. “Coming to lunch, Severus?”

Sev pulls Lily aside as they pass by each other. “Sorry,” he mutters, holding her by the wrist. “Mulciber’s just — he can be a bit — you know.”

“No, I don’t,” Lily says shortly. She’s vaguely aware that, a few feet down the corridor, Mulciber has stopped to wait. “And you don’t have to apologise for him, Sev. What he thinks about me and Mary is his own business.”

“Sorry,” Sev repeats, and Lily wishes he would stop. “He shouldn’t have said that. You did great today in class. That’s just the way he is.”

“It’s not an excuse for being a prick, though, is it?” someone else says, and Lily finds herself praying that what seems to be happening is not _actually_ happening.

Sev clenches his jaw. “And yet, here you are,” he says coolly, narrowing his eyes. “Don’t act like you’re so above it all, Black. Merlin knows you’re just the same.”

“I think you’ll find that I’m not,” Sirius says simply. “All right, Evans? Mary’s waiting for you, you know.”

Lily glares over her shoulder at him. “I don’t know who invited you to this _private_ conversation, but it certainly wasn’t either me or Sev. Tell Mary to go on ahead without me.” She glances down, realises that Sev’s hand is still on her wrist, and detaches herself. 

Sev’s expression is one of wounded dejection. “I really mean it, though, Lily. You’re class at Potions, all right, don’t let Mulciber get to you like — ”

“I’m not _letting_ Mulciber get to me!” she cuts in. “I don’t know where you got that idea from. I _know_ I’m good at Potions! You don’t have to vouch for me just to make me feel better.”

Sev’s eyes widen. “I wasn’t saying that — ” he begins, and then stops, because just then, a loud _bang_ sounds and several people cry out. Both Lily and Sev turn about, looking for the source, and when she spots it, it takes every bit of strength Lily has not to throw down her books and scream. Further down the corridor, a cloud of fluorescent pink dust is settling over a figure that very clearly belongs to an enraged Leon Mulciber, while a group of boys doubles over laughing, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out who they are. 

“Potter!” Lily shouts, marching over and seizing him by the back of his robes. “I told you to _leave_ it! It’s not a big deal!”

James stops laughing for long enough to stare at her incredulously before he starts up again. “ _Not a big deal_?” he splutters. “Believe me, Evans, this isn’t the first time he’s used that word, and about you. You just weren’t around to hear.”

It’s this, the casual mention of what sets her apart from everyone else in more ways than just who her parents are, while Potter continues grinning at her as if he’s done her a favour by telling her just what Mulciber says when her bad ear is to him, that angers Lily the most. She opens her mouth, ready to tell Potter what exactly she thinks of him, when a jet of light streaks past her and hits Potter squarely in the chest, knocking him into a crowd of passing third-years. This, of course, sends Sirius Black into a fit of anger, and he advances on the still-pink Mulciber, wand out and eyes flashing.

“You’d better watch yourself, you know,” Black snarls, the tip of his wand up against Mulciber’s throat. Lily wonders if he actually knows enough magic to do real damage, or if this is all for show; a crowd is beginning to gather, pausing in the hallway to watch. 

“Fancy yourself Potter’s knight in shining armour, do you? What are you, his servant? What a way to fall for the Black heir — ” 

“If you want to talk about my family, I’ll tell you what my parents think of yours, you nasty little — ”

“Oh, I don’t think you’re in a position to judge,” Mulciber interrupts gleefully, sneering even as Black backs him up against the wall. “From what I hear, even _your_ family’s got a bit of Muggle filth in it now — ”

The sound Sirius’ fist makes as it connects with the side of Mulciber’s face seems to echo, rattling dully inside Lily’s head. James has recovered sufficiently to race forward, and he and Peter grab at Black’s shoulders, trying to pull him back as he winds his fist up for another go. Sev rushes forward, too — _why_ he does is beyond Lily, considering he really has very little to do with the whole situation, until she realises he probably just wants to have an excuse to hit Sirius — and Lily can only watch in horrified fascination at the quickly escalating situation in front of her. She tears her eyes away only because she wonders where Remus is in all of this; he’s standing a foot away from the rest of the action, looking tired and resigned, as if he knows he doesn’t have the strength or energy to stop his friends — either that, or he simply doesn’t want to, and Lily can’t decide which exasperates her more. 

“Sirius, leave it!” James is saying, trying not to get hit in the face himself as he yanks on the back of Sirius’ robes, and Lily thinks, _Yeah_ , _like_ you _can talk_.

Sirius is still, impressively, despite James on one side and Peter on the other, keeping Mulciber pinned up against the wall with his wand clenched tightly in one fist. “Where’d you hear that?” he shouts. “You keep your nose out of my family’s business and stay away from my brother — Peter, let go of my arm — ” 

“ _Mr. Black_!” another voice bellows, stern and furious, and Lily finds herself closing her eyes and wishing she was not here at all. To think this all started with a snide comment.

Professor McGonagall strides down the steps, her mouth set in a tight line and eyes flashing dangerously. Trailing behind her are all five of the Gryffindor Prefects and Patricia Rakepick — they must have just come from a meeting in McGonagall’s office, Lily realises — and while some of them (specifically Lucas Thornton) look amused to have come across such a spectacle, most of them stare, wide-eyed and eyebrows raised, at the scene in front of them. 

Professor McGonagall levitates the remnants of a smoking firecracker into her hand and eyes James over the rim of her glasses. “I assume this is yours, Mr. Potter?” she asks, though it isn’t really a question. 

He nods sulkily, and McGonagall turns her gaze to Mulciber, who’s still standing pressed up against the wall even though Sirius is no longer holding his wand to his throat. She sighs at the sight of the fluorescent powder, which has stuck itself to Mulciber’s robes no matter how hard he brushes at it. “Need I remind you, Mr. Potter, that both Zonko’s firecrackers and Everett’s Exploding Color Pellets are banned products within the grounds?”

“ _He_ started it,” James says childishly, pointing at Mulciber.

“I am not going to listen to a blame game of who started what,” Professor McGonagall interrupts, holding up a hand to silence Pettigrew and Remus before they can jump in. She fixes each of the boys with her piercing gaze, ending on Sev, silently demanding an explanation from someone. Potter and Pettigrew still each have a hand on Black's robes even though Sirius is now standing limp and resigned, fuming at the ground.

“Black’s threatening Leon,” Sev finally volunteers, glowering.

“Mr. Black?”

Sirius scowls. “He had a go at my family.”

“And he jinxed James,” Remus reminds everyone faintly, looking very much like the whole incident is draining him of whatever energy he has left.

“Only because they threw a firecracker at me!”

“Only because _he_ called Evans a Mudblood!”

Professor McGonagall, who has closed her eyes and begun inhaling very slowly in what appears to be an admirable attempt to preserve her patience, now snaps them open again, and they land on Lily, who fights the urge to run away herself. “Miss Evans?”

“It’s true,” Lily says, glaring at Potter. “But I told him to _leave it_.”

There’s a long pause while McGonagall breathes a heavy sigh and pinches the bridge of her nose. The Prefects behind her look at each other with a mixture of amusement and awkwardness. “Mr. Longbottom, Miss Fortescue, would you mind — ?” she says, when she finally looks up again. She waves her hand at the throng of spectators that still remains, and Alice and Frank thankfully start ushering them away towards the Hall. “The five of you will serve detentions,” she continues, pointing at each of the five boys in turn; Mulciber and Sev scowl and open their mouths, about to protest, until McGonagall turns her eye on them. “ _Yes_ , Mr. Mulciber, you too. That language is unacceptable here. Please come see me in my office tomorrow evening at five o’clock.”

Madelina Lau blinks. “Professor, I’ll need Potter for the Quidditch practice I sched — ” 

“I’m afraid, Miss Lau, that you’ll have to make do with only six players, then,” McGonagall interrupts, and Madelina falls silent, shooting a glance at Potter that Lily recognises as the universal expression for _what have you done_?

“Sorry,” Sev mutters to Lily, when Professor McGonagall has swept away, leaving them all to pull themselves together. Sirius is still shooting Mulciber poisonous looks, James is straightening his robes with an indignant scowl, and Peter is patting Remus — who looks about to faint — on the back. 

Lily regards Sev coldly. “Stop apologising just because you think it’ll put me in a better mood,” she says. Then, raising her voice just loud enough to catch James’ attention, she continues, “If anything, it’s _you_ lot who should be apologising for dragging me into the most embarrassing situation of all time.”

Sirius stares at her, incredulous. “I’m not apologising for putting Mulciber in his place.”

“I can still hear you,” Mulciber snaps, still bright pink — neither McGonagall nor any of the Prefects bothered to Vanish the powder, Lily notes. “I need to get cleaned up before lunch. Coming, Severus?”

Sev’s gaze swings back and forth between his two friends, and finally Lily folds her arms and makes the decision for him. “Go on, then. Have fun in detention.”

Black watches the two of them go, then turns back to Lily. “You should be careful around them.”

“Is that so?” Lily says archly. “Forgive me if I’m not tripping over myself to follow advice from _you_ , Mr. I’ll-pin-you-against-a-wall-if-you-have-a-go-at-my-family.”

Sirius’ face darkens. “That’s different. He doesn’t know my family; he doesn’t get a say. No, I’m saying you should be careful around Sniv — Snape — if he’s hanging out so much with Leon Mulciber.” He frowns. “I know families like his.”

Lily narrows her eyes. Potter pulls on Sirius’ arm. “Come on, Sirius. Let’s just go eat,” he says quietly. Then, his eyes flicking up to meet Lily’s, he grimaces and adds, “Sorry, Evans, about — well. Mulciber deserves it, but I didn’t mean for it to escalate like that. Only trying to help.”

 _Oh_ , Lily thinks bitterly, raising her eyebrows. _Because_ helping _entails sending a firework laced with magical dust enchanted to stick to whatever it touches, and then getting into a fistfight_ . _Save it_ , _because I don’t need anyone to help me._ She’s about to say it out loud, too, but then Potter shoves his friends towards the Great Hall and ends the conversation with one last sheepish grin over his shoulder, and Lily’s left standing alone in the corridor, staring after them, wondering why they care so much about one word.

**//**

James and Sirius each get two detentions for their involvement in the Potions Corridor Incident, as it becomes known. While it’s irritating and, in James’ opinion, a bit unfair given the circumstances (he spends five extra minutes in Professor McGonagall’s office trying to argue it down to just one detention), he’s consoled by both the fact that Leon Mulciber is also served detentions and the way gossip spreads around school like wildfire. By the next day, after he and Sirius and Peter finish their lines for McGonagall’s first detention and make their way to the Great Hall for dinner, pretty much the entire school has heard some version of the Incident, and James is sufficiently cheered up enough to almost forget the fact that he still has to serve another detention tomorrow night.

“He deserved it,” he says again to Sirius and Peter under his breath, when they take their seats at the Gryffindor table and watch Mulciber and Snivellus taking their own seats on the other side of the Hall. “I don’t like Evans that much, but the nerve to call her that — just because she’s better at Potions than he is . . .”

“Maybe he doesn’t really know what the word means,” Remus suggests hopefully, though he looks doubtful as he picks at his dinner roll. 

James rolls his eyes. “Please. As if he could be in _that_ House and not know what it means. Not after Birmingham.”

“Oh, he definitely knows what it means,” Sirius agrees, piling food onto his plate. “You don’t grow up in a pure-blooded family _without_ knowing.” 

“And I can’t believe Snivellus has the gall to keep cosying up to Evans the way he does,” James continues, “when he’s also friends with _that_ git — ouch!” He winces as someone cuffs him round the back of his neck, and glances up to see Madelina frowning down at him.

“That’s for missing practice,” she says, “but I heard what happened, and I _suppose_ I can forgive you.”

“ _You_ heard what happened? The upper levels must really be starved for gossip.”

“Patricia told us last night,” Madelina says. “Just don’t do it again, will you? I’d hate to have to discipline you for it. Prick like that, he deserved it.”

“Cheers, Madelina,” James says brightly, as she stalks off to the other end of the table with Frank and Alice. He turns back to his friends. “See, even the Prefects agree — oh, Peter, _get a grip_ and pass the potatoes, honestly — all right, Remus? You look like you’re about to be proper sick.”

“He’s fine,” Sirius says, pouring Remus a cup of tea and pushing it towards him. “Probably just revolted by the sight of Snivellus’ greasy nose, the great big git . . .”

Remus’ lips quirk up, though he goes back to tearing off chunks of his roll and kneading them between his fingers absent-mindedly. Sirius is looking at him with a sort of concern that James hasn’t ever really seen on his face before, and he wonders what _that’s_ all about, until Evans shows up with the rest of her friends.

“All right, Evans?” James says, grinning.

She doesn’t respond, though she shoots him a dark glare before slamming her books down on the table. Still angry, then. Mary MacDonald mutters something to her — probably about him and Sirius, James assumes — and Marlene, who’s only just gotten out of the Hospital Wing, ignores them both and says, “Sirius, I heard you beat up Mulciber in the Potions corridor!”

Sirius shrugs blandly. “He should’ve known better than to talk about my family like that _to my face_. ‘Your family’s got a bit of _Muggle filth_ in it now — '” He stabs at his shepherd’s pie, scowling. “And after Birmingham — ”

“For Christ’s sake,” Lily interrupts, her fork falling to her plate with a clatter, “can’t anyone talk about anything else? Birmingham was _months_ ago.”

James nearly chokes on his food, and Peter obligingly whacks him on the back a few times. “Like that makes any difference,” he splutters, “when it’s the first attack since — ”

“It’s _not_ an attack,” Marlene cuts in loudly, glancing between Sirius and Lily, and suddenly looking like she very much regrets bringing up the topic at all. When she speaks again, her voice is much quieter. “Let’s not.”

James frowns, but Marlene’s eyes harden in a way that very clearly says, _We should not be talking about this_ , so he drops it from conversation, though he continues thinking about it for the rest of dinner while Sirius — weirdly — busies himself with plying Remus with food.

James knows his parents have given him a life that most of his classmates would be hard-pressed to match. He’s not blind. He’s seen the way Peter flushes when Sirius’ family send him money, the way Remus tugs at the sleeves of his robes when he’s worried they fall a little short. His broom is a newer model and in better condition than most of the other members of the Quidditch team (the notable exception being Nathaniel Pritchard, whose mother also happens to play Keeper for the Holyhead Harpies); his trunk has only ever been his, unlike Marlene, whose trunk still bears her brother Samuel’s name; he knows his surname puts him up there with Sirius and Frank Longbottom and the rest of them — a privilege that Evans doesn’t get to enjoy. But even Sirius, magical royalty though he is, has his own family business and problems at home that clearly need to be worked out, while James enjoys his parents’ company and looks forward to receiving mail from them. 

But as comfortable as his parents have made his life, the one thing they refuse to do is treat him as stupid, and this is why, as soon as he had stepped in the door last December, they had sat him down to have a serious conversation about what happened in Birmingham. It doesn’t make complete sense to James, still, why it’s so complicated and why the Ministry can’t or hasn’t made any sort of public announcement about it, and he’s still having difficulty wrapping his head around the fact that someone could go about terrorising a bunch of Muggles just for the fun of it. But it didn't matter that he didn't get it yet. His dad had sat him down in their living room anyway, taken off his glasses, and explained, haltingly but with purpose, what kinds of people existed in the magical community and how far they’d go to maintain blood purity. And now that he knows, it’s nearly inconceivable to James that people like Evans apparently don’t realise the gravity of Birmingham. 

“Stop staring, Potter, and eat your bloody supper,” Lily snaps, flicking a few grains of rice at him from across the table. 

“Sorry,” James mumbles; he hadn’t realised he was staring. He tries to imagine a scenario where Evans isn’t angry with him, long enough for him to explain why everyone’s still so hung up on Birmingham.

“Oh, just leave it,” Sirius says, reading his mind. “You know she can’t bear anyone speaking ill of her precious Snivellus — I already tried yesterday.”

“I told you what my dad said about — I don’t think she understands the kind of person Mulciber is — ”

“To be fair,” Sirius interrupts, “I don’t think _you_ do, either. I think I might be the most qualified authority here when it comes to — oh, Merlin, Remus. Come on. Let’s go to the bathroom.”

Just about everyone within ten feet of Remus, Peter and James included, scoot a few inches back as he turns a ghastly shade of greyish-green and looks about to vomit; the only exception is Sirius, who grabs Remus by the arm, pulls him to his feet, and hauls him off towards the doors.

“He looks awful,” Peter says, poking at his half-eaten dinner with his knife and looking very much like he’s lost his appetite. “I don’t envy Sirius. Whatever’s happening in the restroom — I don’t want to know.”

Lily pauses in her eating for just long enough to glance between Remus’ newly-vacated spot and Marlene. “Reckon he’s caught your bug, Marlene.”

Marlene blanches. “I was _not_ sick like that.”

James watches as Sirius pushes Remus out of the Hall and the two of them round the corner, disappearing from sight, then looks back at Peter, who’s gone back to eating, appetite apparently now restored. “Peter, do you ever wonder if they’re not telling us something?”

“Like what?” Peter says, around a mouthful of treacle tart.

James stares at the remnants of Remus’ shredded dinner roll and Sirius’ shepherd’s pie, both abandoned. “I don’t know,” he says thoughtfully, though an idea is slowly beginning to form in his mind. “They’re just — they’re up to something.”

The girls and Peter all stare at him like he’s started sprouting Devil’s Snare for hair; then, one by one, they shake their heads and resume eating. 

James only grins at the empty seats across from him. He might be sheltered, he thinks, but he’s not stupid. He’s old enough to connect the dots between people like Mulciber and Birmingham. And, he thinks, glancing at Marlene McKinnon's battered, hand-me-down Astronomy textbook, he’s _definitely_ old enough count the number of days between the full moons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK THIS WAS MESSY AND IT'S BEEN A LITERAL MONTH SINCE THE LAST TIME I UPDATED but! twas fun, i guess. and i love lily evans w all my heart. i have ch. 10 written and am planning on doing nano (even though school is KILLING me lol) so fingers crossed for a semi-regular updating schedule!!
> 
> i feel like i had a lot to say but apparently not. i'm sure something will come to me. anyway it's been a while since i plugged my tumblr so you can find me [here](https://pateldevs.tumblr.com) if that's your thing. also if you are 18+ and an american citizen pls remember to vote! ok. have a good night friends (or day. but it's evening here. lol)!! x


	11. x. occlumency

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy thanksgiving to my american readers! not a fan of the holiday but hope u guys are staying safe and enjoying ur day off. pls enjoy this mediocre update on me~

_rules were made to be broken and are too often for the lazy to hide behind._

_—_ douglas macarthur

**_mid-march 1973_ **

The conversation Remus had with Sirius before the winter holidays lingers in his mind for months. He finds himself thinking about it all the time. It’s the first thing he thinks of in the morning, pretending to be asleep while James rustles around the dormitory, getting ready for Quidditch practice; it’s the last thing he thinks of at night before falling asleep, trying to mute the sound of Peter’s gentle snoring. There are moments when he almost says it, with the words on the tip of his tongue — when he finishes brushing his teeth before bed and walks back into the dormitory to find his friends sprawled about the room, looking for some passing amusement; when they’re accompanying James back up to the castle from the pitch; when Peter complains that their Astronomy homework is giving him a headache and begs for a distraction. He’s never felt this before, the compulsion to share. It’s always been _his_ and his only — it’s a burden, yes, but it’s one he’d much rather carry alone than with the help of anyone else. 

And yet, it doesn’t feel right to keep it to himself. Maybe it’s because Sirius knows now, and there’s a little bit of guilt that gnaws at Remus, knowing that Sirius is lying for him when James and Peter ask after him. Maybe it’s because he’s had a little taste of what it feels like _not_ to lie anymore; Sirius knowing initially felt like something new for him to worry about, but Remus has to admit there’s something nice about not having to explain himself to Sirius. Whatever it is, Remus finds that only one of his friends knowing is worse than either all or none of them knowing.

And so Remus finds himself overthinking as always, honing in on every hesitation and lull in every conversation, wondering: _Is this it_? _Is this the moment_? _Do I tell them now_? _Should I tell them_? _Is it worth telling them_? The secret is pressing at the walls of his heart, begging to be let out — but he can’t let anyone else know, _he can’t_ , his father would be incensed to find if even _one_ of his friends knew — not to mention that it was a Black — if he tells James and Peter, he might as well tell the whole year, let Lily and Marlene and Mary know as well — why not tell the whole _school_ — 

In the end, the decision is made for him. The day after the full moon in March, Sirius shows up at the Hospital Wing in the afternoon, just as Remus is getting dressed again, his movements slow and creaky. Remus can hear Madam Pomfrey, standing guard outside the curtains around his bed, telling him off for coming.

“It’s fine, I know,” Sirius says casually, as if the secret he’s keeping is about James’ surprise birthday party and not the fact that one of his friends turns into a feral beast once a month. “Can I see him?”

“Keep your voice down, boy,” Madam Pomfrey hisses, even though the Hospital Wing had been empty when she’d brought Remus back earlier. Either way, he’s grateful; she’s another layer of protection. Sirius might not care, but it’s not a stretch to say the rest of the school probably doesn’t share his views as far as werewolves are concerned. “And no, you can’t. He’s getting dressed.”

“So he’s all right, then!”

Remus winces as he tugs his jumper over his head, the fabric rubbing over his raw wounds. He’d woken up in the morning next to a broken bedpost, his side stinging from a nasty scrape against the splintered wood. _All right_ is an optimistic way of putting it. 

“I’m fine,” Remus grits out, whipping the curtains aside and limping out to face Sirius. He turns to Madam Pomfrey, hand out. “Could I have my wand?”

Madam Pomfrey rushes off to her office to retrieve his wand. It’s a luxury he knows he can’t afford to be cavalier with, and everyone — his parents, Dumbledore and McGonagall, Madam Pomfrey, even Remus himself — had agreed from the beginning that taking it with him to the Shrieking Shack was not an option, but at the same time, his father had been insistent that he never be without his wand if he could help it. So once a month, he turns it over to Madam Pomfrey for safekeeping; it feels a little like he’s being sent to his own personal Azkaban, but at least he knows he’ll get it back. 

Sirius stands there in silence while they wait, then watches almost curiously when Remus takes back his wand, fingers curling around its base and warming to the pleasant, ever-familiar hum. Remus is vaguely aware of his friend’s eyes fixed upon him, feels the pressure of being the thing that Sirius’ gaze is holding, but he pushes it away and pockets his wand. “Come on,” he says, voice oddly strangled in the back of his throat. “What did I miss in Transfiguration?”

“You are _not_ to go to class today,” Madam Pomfrey cuts in, but Remus waves her off; he’s tired but not quite as ill as last month, and exams will be here before he knows it. Besides, the longer he’s shut away, the more questions everyone else will ask. 

“I’ll look after him!” Sirius calls back to Madam Pomfrey cheerfully, nearly skipping after Remus.

Remus snorts. “You won’t,” he says. “I don’t need _looking after_.”

“Only joking, keep your head on. You didn’t miss much in McGonagall’s class, either, just repeating Thursday’s lesson. Only about half the class has got it, still, can you believe it? Josefina Dolohov’s pincushion still had eyes and a nose.”

Remus declines to mention that at the end of class last week, half of his own pincushion still had porcupine quills in it. Only Sirius and James had managed to Transfigure their porcupines to Professor McGonagall’s satisfaction — through her approval had been given rather grudgingly. 

“Peter’s was hopeless, too,” Sirius continues, tossing his wand up in the air and catching it again as they make their way back to Gryffindor tower. “Lost the face, but it’s still got all the quills. James didn’t realise at first; he nearly picked it up — ”

“Well, look who’s finally turned up,” James interrupts, clambering out into the hallway just as Sirius and Remus reach the portrait hole. “Sirius, I got your books for you — if we’re late for Defence again Stokowski might skin us alive — all right, Remus? Sick, again?”

“Feeling better,” Remus says uncomfortably, glancing both ways as if someone might jump out from behind one of the suits of armour and scream _Liar_! at any given moment.

James nods slowly, with a look in eyes that makes Remus uneasy. He tries not to squirm under his friend’s scrutiny. “Do you mind?” he says, pointing at the portrait hole behind James. “It’s just — my books — I need to — ” He gestures uselessly.

“Oh.” James steps aside. “Yeah.”

Remus makes the painstaking climb up the stairs, his joints protesting every step, feeling as if James is still watching him even as the dormitory door shuts behind him. He gathers up his things, swaps out yesterday’s Potions textbooks for his Defence Against the Dark Arts ones, straightens out the things on his dresser he left askew. He takes his time; the teachers don’t mind when he arrives late to class — even Professor Stokowski, a curmudgeonly wizard some fifty or sixty years old, with close-cropped grey hair and a short temper, whose gaze always lingers on Remus with something just short of disapproval, never says anything.

(“I don’t know why. It’s clear that he hates me,” Remus once said, after a class in which he’d arrived nearly half an hour late, still a bit shaky. “And I can’t exactly blame him. He’s spent his whole life chasing after creatures like me.”

“You’re not a _creature_ ,” Sirius had said sharply. “Stokowski’s just had some sort of wizard shit fed to him all his life and he believes it, is all. You ask me, he’s more mad that he can’t complain when you show up late, because you’re still top of the class.”

“He’s mad that a _werewolf_ is top of his class. Again, a creature he’s spent his life chasing after.”

“Again,” Sirius had echoed, “ _not_ a _creature_ . Anyway, doesn’t your dad do pretty much the same thing? For the Ministry? _He_ doesn’t treat you like garbage, so Stokowski’s got no excuse for being a prick.”

“That’s just ’cause he’s my dad. He’s not allowed to treat me like garbage. It’s kind of a base qualification for being a dad.”

At this, Sirius’ brows had drawn together almost imperceptibly, but Remus noticed — a bit guiltily — and they’d dropped the subject.)

Remus continues to take a pace that suits his aching body, though, regardless of however viciously Professor Stokowski decides to glare at him when he arrives in class after the full moon. If not being reprimanded for skipping class and being tardy is a privilege he’s privy to, he’s going to enjoy it to its greatest potential. So he’s caught a bit off guard when, upon exiting the common room again, ready to calmly make his way down to the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, James pops out of nowhere and says, “Remus! Finally!”

“ _Christ_ — James. What are you still doing here? Shouldn’t you be — ” Remus glances at the old grandfather clock that stands at the end of the hall outside the entrance to their tower. “You’ll be late to Defence.”

“So will you,” James points out.

 _Yes_ , Remus thinks, frowning, _but you’ll be eligible for detention_ , _and you’ll get_ me _detention if I turn up with you._

“I told Sirius to go on ahead,” James says, apparently oblivious to Remus’ irritation. “I think McGonagall might write home to his parents if she gets word of _another_ detention for him, and — well, we both know it’s probably best if that doesn’t happen.”

Remus nods grimly. James probably knows more about Sirius’ home life than he does.

“Anyway,” James continues, still cheerful. “How’re you feeling?”

Remus makes a sort of half-grunt. “All right,” he says, busying himself with straightening out the sticky notes marking the pages in his textbook as they walk. James watches out of the corner of his eye, fascinated. (The first time Remus had taken out a pad of sticky notes, both Sirius and James had nearly lost their minds.) “I’m fine. I just — headache — my mum gets them all the time, must have gotten it from her.”

James nods slowly. “My dad told me Muggles get them — what’s it — starts with an _m_ — ”

“Migraines.”

“Yeah, that’s it.” James pauses at the top of the staircase, waiting for it to stop moving and settle into place before he and Remus head down. “Remus — you know you can tell me stuff, right? You know, stuff that you don’t want Sirius or Peter to know . . .”

Remus halts in the middle of the staircase. He’s faintly aware of the way James’ gaze comes to rest on the scar across his cheek, and he looks down at his feet, suddenly as self-conscious as he was at the start of his first term all over again. He fights the urge to tug at his sleeves, too, even though his forearms are still safely concealed from sight; he’s pretty sure only Sirius and Madam Pomfrey have seen the ugly markings there, and even then he takes refuge in his long sleeves as quickly as possible when he's in their company. James is looking at him, almost staring, and Remus starts to feel a little like he can see straight through his shirt to his bare chest. 

“I’m fine,” he repeats, folding his arms across his chest defensively. “Can we please just get to Defence? Before Stokowski gives us both detention?”

“He won’t give you detention,” James says, leaning against the banister as if he’s planning on parking there. Part of Remus is screaming at him to just _go_ , but the other half loiters where he’s standing, begging him to just let it out. “Stokowski never gives you detention for being late. Even when you miss half of class.”

Remus shrugs awkwardly. “Madam Pomfrey must tell him beforehand — ”

“Look, I’m just going to ask,” James interrupts. “Are you a werewolf?”

The sound that comes out of Remus’ mouth — halfway between a poorly-feigned noise of disbelief and genuine surprise — is uncomfortably loud in the mostly empty corridors. “I don’t really know how to respond to that,” he says at length, which is true. 

“I won’t tell Peter or Sirius,” James says quickly. “But — you’re just — you’re always gone around the full moon, and you always get all — you know, _sick_ — honestly, you look pretty terrible, no offence — and then you’ve got these — I’m not sure what else they’d be from — don’t tell me it’s your _parents_ — ”

The reality of what James is saying — that the decision of what to tell and when is no longer a question to obsess over — hits Remus, and he lets out a little laugh as if punched in the stomach. “Sirius knows,” he says, something close to relief washing over him. “He figured it out months ago.”

James’ face seems to go through close to the full range of human emotion in half a second: a little confused, pleased upon realising his theory is right, then deeply perplexed at the thought that he’s not the first to figure it out. “What do you mean, _Sirius knows_ — ”

“Oh, come on — you figured out I’m always gone around the full moon, it can’t have escaped your notice that every time I’m sick, Sirius is the one dragging me to the bathroom,” Remus scoffs, shifting his textbooks under his arm. “Or the time in October when I stopped speaking to him for a week.”

James’ brows draw together. “ _Oh_ ,” he says, the realisation dawning over him very slowly. “So _that’s_ what all that was about last term. Wow. And I really thought I was so clever, figuring this out on my own — ”

“Sirius could probably chart the sky and the movement of the stars and planets and their moons in his sleep,” Remus reminds him. 

“Damn, you’re right. Well, anyhow, I won’t tell Peter. Your secret’s safe with me.”

Remus fiddles with the edge of his robes. “I think I have to tell Peter,” he says. “If you _and_ Sirius both know — we can’t leave Peter out of it, he’ll be crushed if he thinks we’re keeping secrets from him — ”

“You can’t be serious. This is a big thing, Remus, you don’t have to say anything if you’re not ready to, or you don’t want to — I’m sorry if I’ve put you in an awkward position, but if Peter wants to throw a big stink about it, I’ll talk to him.”

“No,” Remus says, finding that he feels more confident about this than he’s felt about anything in the last few months. _It’s now or never_. “I’ll tell him tonight.” He glances up at James, the scars on his face still tingling a little with the knowledge that someone else knows what they are, what they mean, where they’re from. “This doesn’t — you’re not — you’re not _mad_ , are you?”

James laughs. “ _Me_? If you’d have to worry about anyone carting you off to Azkaban, it’d be Sirius, just look at his family — look, you’re talking to me now, aren’t you? And your essays are good enough to get us decent marks when I’ve left them ’til the last minute, so that’s really all that matters. Joking — I’m _joking_ , obviously.” He reaches out and pats Remus awkwardly on the shoulder. It’s a contrived gesture, one that makes them both flush (Remus can tell James regrets it immediately) and they look away from each other. “And — sorry — I know it’s not a joke; you won’t get carted off to Azkaban, we wouldn’t let that happen to you — ” Remus is a bit surprised and equally embarrassed to find that he’s actually _tearing up_ right now, just at the thought that he has not one but two friends who would defend him “ — not in a _million_ years, Remus.”

Remus opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. Instead, what he ends up hearing is the footsteps of Lucas Thornton, who’s standing at the bottom of the stairs squinting up at him and James curiously. “What’re you two doing here?” he says, stomping his way up the steps. “Shouldn’t you be in — ” he checks his watch, as if it’ll give him a timetable “ — whatever class it is right now? Potter, what are _you_ doing out of class, of all people? You know if you get detention and miss Quidditch practice again, I reckon Madelina will flay you and use you as an example . . .”

James hums good-naturedly. “Somehow the threat just isn’t the same, coming from you, Lucas,” he says, straightening up as Lucas snorts and continues on past them. “Come on, we’d better get to Defence now — you’re right, we’re really going to be late this time — blast, I’ve left Sirius to get paired up with Peter . . . well, you being my partner’s probably actually for the best when it comes to that class. No _wonder_ Stokowski’s always giving you that nasty look . . . if Peter looks like that when you tell him, well, I’ll turn _him_ into a pincushion, McGonagall will be thrilled, you should’ve seen her face today — whatever he handed her at the end of class was _not_ a pincushion — ”

Remus is about to tell James that Sirius already told him all of this, and they could probably get to class faster if they just shut up and walked faster, but he looks at James, and he finds himself smiling so broadly that not even Professor Stokowski taking off a dozen points from them for being nearly ten minutes late can ruin it.

//

Telling Peter, Remus finds, isn’t as easy as telling James or Sirius. For one thing, it’s pretty obvious Peter has absolutely no idea what’s going on, unlike Sirius or James. Remus realises he doesn’t really know how to go about this; he’s never voluntarily shared this information with anyone before, and James and Sirius did most of the work for him when they spoke about it. 

“There’s not really an easy way to do this, is there?” Remus groans, scrubbing his hands up and down his face at dinner. Peter isn’t there yet, having been held up by McGonagall for his apparently dismal marks on the last essay she assigned, so it’s just him on one side of the table and James and Sirius on the other, Sirius already starting on his dinner and James still red-faced from practice. “How am I supposed to lead into this?”

“Just go for it,” Sirius says, grimacing and clearly regretting swallowing so quickly. He coughs slightly, and James whacks him on the back. “Just say, ‘Hey, Peter, I’m a — ”

“Keep your voice down!” Remus hisses, as the girls troop over.

“ — wizard,” Sirius finishes easily, grinning at the girls as they take their seats at the table. Marlene props her elbows on the table, plaiting her still-wet hair. “All right, Marlene?”

Lily Evans, never one to miss anything, looks around curiously at them, narrowed eyes landing on Sirius, James, and Remus in turn. “You’re up to something,” she says suspiciously. Remus averts his gaze; Sirius blinks back at her with wide eyes, the picture of feigned innocence, drawing a disapproving snort. “Well, don’t stop planning your ridiculous pranks on my account.”

“As if we’d give you an opportunity to ruin our fun,” James says. Remus can feel him nudging at his foot under the table, a silent instruction to _relax_ , _nothing bad is going to happen_. Remus only deepens his frown until Lily rolls her eyes and goes back to talking about Potions with Dorcas Meadowes.

“Look, if it’s really driving you so mad, we can tell him first and then you can explain,” Sirius suggests, once they’re sure the girls have been fully absorbed in their own discussion. Apprehensive paranoia still grips at Remus like a hand around his throat, but the conversation is vague enough that he allows himself a moment to breathe. _No one knows what any of this is about_ , he tells himself. _Calm down_. “You know, just test the waters first.”

“No,” Remus says, “this has to be all me.” It’s his burden to bear. He pokes at his roast chicken; his appetite has just started to return, but it’s quickly dwindling again, and drops to nearly nothing when he glances up and sees that Peter has finally made it out of McGonagall’s office in one piece. “I’ll tell him after Astronomy,” he mumbles. _Christ_ , the irony. His heart jumps with every beat, half-excited and half-terrified. “You’ll be there, won’t you?”

James looks at him like he’s thick. “Course,” he says, like he’s never heard a more ridiculous question in his life. “Where else would we be?”

**//**

Peter does not find the news that Remus is a werewolf as amusing as either James or Sirius did.

Remus coughs awkwardly into the silence of the dormitory as if he can reset everything just like that, but of course it doesn’t work. It’s not like he _enjoys_ the fact that James and Sirius treat his most closely-kept secret the same way they treat any of their pranks, all casual and _what’s the big deal_? about it, but there’s something comforting to it. It’s almost a relief. Whenever lycanthropy and werewolves show up in the news, Remus can always see veins popping in his father’s temple; where his father worries, James and Sirius laugh and joke. It almost makes Remus forget that it’s a social problem — he wants to drag his friends before his father and say, _Look_ , _Dad_ , _it’s okay_! _This is Sirius Black and James Potter_ , _and they think I’m all right_! Because if the heirs of two of the largest pure-blood families don’t care, then why should anyone else?

But Peter is not like them. He doesn’t press for more information or feed Remus reassurances that he doesn’t care the way Sirius did. He doesn’t laugh at his own slowness, his inability to connect the dots the way James did. He merely stands there in front of his open dresser, pyjama bottoms hanging from one hand, blinking at Remus.

“Well, come on, Peter,” James says, a bit exasperated. “We know you’re a bit slow on the uptake, but _really_ , you must have _something_ — ”

Remus swallows. “James.” The rest of James’ sentence hangs in the air, unspoken. “Peter, say something, won’t you?”

Peter drops the pyjamas onto his bed and nudges his dresser drawer shut, mouth opening and closing a few times as he tries to come up with something to say. He glances between James and Sirius, the latter of whom steps a little closer to Remus, as if daring Peter to say what he’s so clearly thinking. Remus closes his eyes and leans into the brief moment of comfort Sirius’ presence brings; when he opens them again, Peter is still looking back and forth as if expecting one of them to announce it’s all a joke. 

“You — you knew?” he says finally, pointing at James.

James makes a face as if he can’t believe Peter needs any more confirmation. “I’ve had my suspicions about it for a few months,” he says, “but I wasn’t sure until today.”

Peter swivels to face Sirius. “And you — ?”

“Since over a year ago, I think,” Sirius says, taking another step and stationing himself next to Remus, as if he can absorb Peter’s hard stare just by standing in front of him. “Honestly, Peter, it’s not that big a deal, you’d think we just told you that you were adopted, the way you’re looking right now — ”

Peter adopts this odd, pinched expression that suggests he probably would rather be told that he was adopted right now. “Sorry,” he says warily, picking up his pyjamas again, though his wide eyes indicate he’s nowhere near recovering from the news, “I just — you — Remus — you’re a — ”

“Alright,” James interrupts, huffing. “Peter, I appreciate it’s taking you a bit of time to process, but you wouldn’t mind speeding it up a bit, would you — some of us want to get to bed, so if you could just wrap it up, that’d be spectacular — ”

“James,” Remus says again, closing his eyes and taking another bracing breath. “Look, Peter — it’s — I’m — it’s under control, all right? I’m not going to — you know.”

Sirius sighs. “He means he’s not going to attack you.” Remus winces; Sirius must see, because he adds, “Come on, we’ve all lived together for a year and a half now, I think if he posed a real threat to us we’d know by now, don’t you?”

Peter blinks again. “I suppose you’re right,” he says, slowly coming to his senses, though the implication that he doesn’t see the difference between human and wolf doesn’t escape Remus’ notice. It stings a little, but it’ll pass, Remus tells himself. “Do the teachers know?”

Remus sighs and says a silent prayer for the strength to keep from shaking Peter by the shoulders. Sirius knocks his forehead against the bedpost.

“What?” Peter says, looking about at the three of them with an incredibly bemused expression on his face. “I mean, does Dumbledore know, at least?”

James stops groaning into his pillow and pulls it away from his face. “Pete, please don’t take this the wrong way,” he says, with a look in his eyes that makes Remus think of Professor McGonagall, “but if you ask _one_ more stupid question, I think I’ll start to lose my respect for you.”

**//**

**_early april 1973_ **

Sirius has done a pretty good job staying out of Narcissa’s way this term. He steers clear of the upper-year Slytherins in general, with the exception of Andromeda, limits his interactions with the younger ones to a minimum (although most of them — save Snivellus and Joseph Mulciber — are actually not bad), and spends as much time as possible with James, whose personality seems to act as a natural repellent for people Sirius would rather not talk to. 

But Narcissa’s birthday takes precedence before any desire Sirius has to fuck around as much as he wants to. There’s something they have in common, Sirius knows, the youngest daughter and the eldest son — they’re both spoilt by their parents and extended family, always the center of attention when it comes to family matters — so he doesn’t really have a choice. He grits his teeth and walks into the Great Hall on Saturday morning to the sight of his youngest cousin, surrounded by adoring admirers at the Slytherin table. As always, she’s sat next to Lucius Malfoy — who looks just as pleased at the attention as Narcissa herself — and keeping Regulus close by, as if he’s more her infant child than her cousin. Sirius glances in the other direction; by pure coincidence, he’s walked into the Hall at around the same time as Andromeda, who stiffens but otherwise marches straight towards her seat at the far end of the table, undeterred, where she turns her back to her sister and strikes up a conversation with the Greengrass twins. 

“You all right, mate?” James mutters, stopping just behind him as if he’s been expecting this. “You need me to save you a seat while you . . . I dunno, do whatever creepy cult thing it is that you all do on your birthdays?”

Sirius cracks a wan smile. “Might as well get it out of the way,” he says, trying to minimise his revulsion at the way his cousin plants what looks like a rather wet kiss on Malfoy’s cheek. “Wish me luck.”

“Good luck,” Peter says obligingly, and James gives him a sort of nervous grin, like it pains him to watch. Oddly enough, Sirius gets the most comfort from Remus, who blinks back at him, mute and expressionless. There’s something reassuring about his unfazed, neutral demeanour. Sirius wonders if that’s the same face he greets the wolf with every month. 

Narcissa beams brightly when she spots him approaching the table, and Sirius has to give it to her: she’s beautiful. She deserves everyone’s reverent attention, even stinking Malfoy’s, and the spell is only broken when she opens her mouth and Sirius is reminded _why_ he’s on this side of the Hall. 

“Sirius!” she gushes. “What a pleasant surprise!”

Sirius quells the desire to screw up his face. How she can sound so cheerful and sweet when their family is the way it is — for Merlin’s sake, Andromeda is literally less than a hundred feet away — he’s not sure. As far as he’s concerned, being of age means absolutely nothing in their family. They’re never free from the reputation and duty their blood dictates. It doesn’t get better when they turn seventeen.

“Narcissa,” Sirius says, nodding to the others gathered around them. Don’t they have anything better to do? Aren’t they a little embarrassed? He wishes they’d look away. He rolls his eyes inwardly and thrusts a package out to his cousin. “Happy birthday.”

“Oh,” she gasps, placing one perfectly manicured hand over her chest, so delicate that Sirius is _sure_ now that it’s all poised and put on for show, “Sirius, you shouldn’t have.”

 _You and I both know this was bought with my parents’ money_ , _and I didn’t really have a choice_ , Sirius wants to say, but he presses his lips together and rattles the box. _Take it_. 

Narcissa pulls the ribbon off the box and cracks it open, glances inside and looks back up at Sirius. “You shouldn’t have,” she repeats quietly, lifting out the silver cuff inside and wiggling it onto her wrist. It’s a little snake, chasing after its own squiggly tail, its onyx gemstone eyes even darker against her marble-white skin. “It’s lovely.”

“Yeah,” Sirius says, wondering how soon he can run back to the Gryffindor table without it seeming weird or rude. Something must apparently show in his face, because Narcissa glances around at everyone else, then stands up unexpectedly and says, “Just a second — I just want to talk to my cousin — you know I hardly get to see him now — come on, Sirius, give me a hug.”

Sirius catches Regulus’ eye under their cousin’s outstretched arm as she shepherds him a few feet away and sends him a silent _what is going on_ , but Regulus just stares back at him blankly. _Brainless sod_ , Sirius thinks. 

“Thank you, Sirius,” Narcissa says, her voice at least half an octave lower now that they’re out of earshot of the Slytherin table. “It’s a very nice gift of you to give.”

“Mm,” Sirius hums. "My parents, you know."

“It’s funny,” Narcissa says, so lightly that Sirius knows whatever she’s about to say isn’t actually going to be funny, “when I saw the box, I had this — this horrible feeling — ”

“Is this supposed to be a compliment?” Sirius interrupts, wishing very much to return to his friends as he watches Narcissa blink very quickly and look up at the ceiling. 

“ — I thought of those earrings you and Regulus gave Andromeda last year for her birthday,” Narcissa finishes. She holds up her hand, watches the bracelet slide down her forearm towards her elbow. “I know your mother helped pick them . . . I don’t know what I would’ve done if you’d given me the same pair — ”

“Narcissa,” Sirius says, sighing impatiently. He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “Where’s this going? It’s just that I’d like to get on with breakfast — ”

“Oh, nowhere,” Narcissa says, looking back at him again. She sounds suspiciously weepy. “I was just — thinking about our family.” She pauses, then adds, “I just wish Andromeda would come around.”

 _Saturday mornings_ really _aren’t the time to be having family crises_ , Sirius wants to snap, looking at his cousin. Even when she’s simpering and getting all teary, she looks like an artist sculpted her. “Andromeda says the same about you and the rest of our family.”

“It’s not too late,” Narcissa continues, ignoring Sirius. “There’s still time — Mother would let her back, I _know_ she would.”

“Not mine,” Sirius says simply. “Look, she made her choice. We — _you_ made yours. If you ask me — which it seems like you are — her reasons make a lot more sense than our parents’.”

Narcissa’s gaze is piercing, but not cold. “I think you forget that there are rules in our family, Sirius,” she says. “This family is _built_ on rules. _She_ knows that.”

Sirius rolls his eyes. _Rules_. As if his parents wouldn’t bend and break every rule in existence if it benefited them. “All right, whatever you say. Just don’t come to me about it, right?” He scratches his head. “I’ve got enough to think about with our messed-up family without this whole — whatever you’re trying to make of it — added to the mix.”

Narcissa stiffens and regards him with a curious, wondering glance for half a second. He’s about to wish her happy birthday again and finally head back to his friends when she reaches out for him again, nails digging into his arm. “Sirius, wait,” she says, almost desperately. “Your parents — Uncle Orion and Aunt Walburga — aside from this, everything’s all right with them, isn’t it? I know it must be hard, being” — she sort of chokes over the word _heir_ — “and this business with Andromeda probably hasn’t helped, but — you’re all right, aren’t you?”

Sirius slowly raises his gaze to meet his cousin’s eyes. They have this glassiness to them, paired with that tiny _v_ between her brows, that Sirius has come to associate with her. When he was younger, he thought it was her pouting; now, it annoys him. It’s a sign of weakness, he now knows — she’s incapable of deciding who she is and what she wants. She wants the best of both worlds: the status of being a Black, the freedom of not being one. He hates that look. It’s indecisive, it’s worried, it’s envious.

He can’t decide which one it is right now.

“What?” Sirius says finally, unsure of what she’s asking.

“Your parents,” Narcissa repeats slowly, her eyes widening almost imperceptibly. “Everything’s all right?”

There is something new in Narcissa’s eyes that Sirius now sees, that he can’t quite place his finger on. The odd terror he felt in the pit of his stomach when Andromeda had first run away and Narcissa had asked what he knew, when he thought she was going to use Legilimency against him, makes a sudden return, tugging at his insides. It’s not quite the same as when his parents give him their horrible, dark glares before pushing inside his brain and rifling through his thoughts; it’s not evil or angry, it’s just _foreign_.

And that’s when it hits Sirius: resolve. He wonders how long it’s been there, how long ago the seed was planted, if it was just after Andromeda left and it’s been growing, nurtured and fed for the last eight or nine months. For just the tiniest of moments, it occurs to Sirius that Narcissa _isn’t_ stupid or weak just because she’s been spoilt the way she is, that the new colour in her eyes means she _knows_ , that her parents are determined to right all of Andromeda’s wrongs in the same twisted way his parents mean to fix his. And even though Narcissa was the last person in the world Sirius expected to be throwing out a lifeline, on her seventeenth birthday no less, and maybe he’s horribly, _horribly_ wrong, Sirius feels a sudden compulsion to trust her. 

_Just one word_ , he thinks, _one word and she’ll be able to help_. _Tell her. Tell her tell her tell her —_

“Narcissa!” 

The moment passes. Malfoy is beckoning from the table, a parcel in his hand. “Owl from your parents!”

Narcissa nods curtly at him and turns back to Sirius. “Get back to your table,” she says abruptly, but she still bends down a bit and brushes kisses on both his cheeks. Her lips tickle the hair by his left ear for half a second, and then she straightens up again and waves him off, eyes now harder and more unforgiving than Sirius has ever seen. He lifts a hand to his ear absent-mindedly as he watches her go, her whisper still echoing in his mind.

“Come on, mate,” James says, swooping in as if on a rescue mission and dragging Sirius back across the Hall. Through the thoughts racing in Sirius’ head, James sounds a million miles away. “That went on for longer than it should’ve, didn’t it? Come on, eat some breakfast, you look like she’s told you something dreadful. What happened? What did she say?”

“Nothing,” Sirius lies, buttering a slice of toast. He imagines Narcissa’s last word like a little smudge of jam, smeared on top and looking up at him expectantly, ready to be seized upon and consumed.

 _Occlumency_.

He eats the toast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've had this written for literally like a month it's just been sitting in my drafts while i keep being like "im gonna revise this!" and then i don't. lmao. sorry if this chapter reads like i wrote it in weirdly timed chunks because i probably did!!! ffs. anyway i have 2 more weeks of the semester and then i can go back to actually thinking about things besides research papers. get pumped. thank u for reading, love u all lots, wherever and whoever u are x


	12. xi. the quidditch cup

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI Y'ALL school's been rough lol but hey this is me posting for the second time in 2 weeks so maybe...i'm back on a schedule!!! lol anyway my last final paper is due in two weeks so i can actually relax and #think properly after that and then write actual content and catch up on reading other fics. ya girl's brain is fried in this chapter. it's 1am as i edit this lol. i have no idea what i was on when i wrote this but i guess if you like fluff and very little plot, here it is. 
> 
> side note, i developed a deep love for marlene mckinnon while writing this for no reason in particular. also shout-out to cho chang's parents i told y'all i was obsessed with them!! they're adorable!! 
> 
> brief cw for underage drinking and mentions of alcohol in this chapter, thanks as always for reading x

_the victor belongs to the spoils._

_—_ f. scott fitzgerald, _the beautiful and the damned_

**mid-may 1973**

The last month of term creeps up on everyone without much warning, hitting them over the head one Monday morning when Professor McGonagall announces that they’ve finished working their way through her second-year curriculum and the next few weeks will be dedicated to revision, just before assigning another essay on a Transfiguration spell of choice. Amid the class-wide groans, Sirius hears a heavy sigh from Remus, who’s sort of twitching in his seat, looking harassed. Sirius can’t blame him; even without looking at his unused planner he knows the full moon is coming at the end of the week, and Remus hates asking for extensions on his homework if it means he’ll have more to worry about over the weekend. 

The days pass by faster now, filled with more prep work to do and pages of notes to memorize. Sirius, who’s never fancied himself as the kind of diligent worker that Remus is, and who has little need to study as desperately as Peter, finds himself a bit bored with everyone’s end-of-term frenzy. Ordinarily James would be right there with him, playing Exploding Snap on the floor of their dormitory while Peter complains loudly about how he’ll never remember the differences between the Goblin Rebellions of 1355, 1533, and 1535, and Remus quietly makes his way through whatever it is he does (Sirius could swear he _invents_ work for himself), but James hardly ever has a moment to spare now, not with the final Quidditch match of the term against Ravenclaw approaching. The same is true for the girls: Marlene’s easily the most easy-going and fun of the bunch, but whenever Sirius sees her, she’s travelling in a pack with the rest of the team, brooms propped over their shoulders and faces burning and flushed as they return to the dormitories after practice in the evenings. He doesn’t really talk to Dorcas Meadowes much, seeing as she’s in the year above, Evans takes everything too seriously, and Mary MacDonald seems to have little interest in spending time with him given the fact that she’s Muggle-born and he comes from one of the purest families in Britain. 

Friday morning, the day after the full moon, Sirius wakes early to visit Remus before class. James is already out on the pitch, and Peter is still completely passed out after Astronomy the night before, so Sirius leaves the dormitory alone and steals a stack of toast from the nearly-empty Great Hall before running up to the Hospital Wing.

Madam Pomfrey’s face pinches a little when she sees Sirius come bounding through the door. “You,” she says.

Sirius treats her to a cheerful grin. “Who else would it be?” he says brightly, and makes a beeline for the curtained bed in the corner.

“Try not to disturb him too much,” Madam Pomfrey says, without even bothering to block his path. “I’ve only just brought him back. He’s had a difficult night.”

“Don’t need to tell me twice,” Sirius calls back. He whips the curtain aside and holds his gift of toast out in front of him as he stands in front of Remus’ bed.

Remus, who appears to have escaped any particularly bloody injuries this month but who still looks so pale it’s as if he’s about to fade into the bedsheets, wrinkles his nose. “No thanks.”

“Yeah, figured,” Sirius says, pulling up a chair with his foot and plopping down in it. “So.” He takes a bite of toast, brushing crumbs from his lips onto the floor. The corners of Remus’ mouth twitch. “What’s new with you?”

“Same old story,” Remus says drily. “Turned into a monster for a night. You know how it is.”

“Mm, yeah.”

“Did I miss anything in Astronomy?”

“Not unless you count Professor Whateley bumping into Peter’s telescope and nearly knocking him over the wall by accident,” Sirius says, polishing off his first slice of toast and starting on the next. “Mate, calm yourself, you haven’t even missed class today yet.”

“Madam Pomfrey’s going to keep me in until the afternoon, at least,” Remus says. “I’ll miss Transfiguration . . . and McGonagall _said_ she would be reviewing pincushions today — I missed class the last time she taught it, too — ”

“All right, keep your head on,” Sirius interrupts. He can’t imagine ever being as anxious as Remus, all torn up over classes. Even Narcissa’s constant fretting over O.W.L.s last year and seeing Andromeda constantly poring over her own textbooks doesn’t exactly strike fear into him. He’s a Black; having a career lined up isn’t exactly at the top of his priorities list. “Peter will let you have a look at his revision notes, you know he will.”

“No offence to him, but Peter has no idea what he’s doing in that class,” Remus says. “I think I’ll end up worse off if I follow his lead. I suppose I’ll just catch up with you and James.”

Sirius laughs. “Pfft. As if I take notes in that class. Or any class, for that matter.”

Remus smiles wanly. “What’s it like, being annoyingly perfect?” 

“Telling you would mean revealing my secret.”

“Will you bring me my revision notes, then?” Remus says, eyes trailing around the room as Madam Pomfrey sweeps towards him, potion in hand. She stands at the foot of his bed and watches him swallow and make a face, arms folded, eyes swivelling scrutinously between Remus and Sirius as if she suspects Sirius is about to throw a firecracker into the air at any minute. “All my books for today are on top of my trunk, you can just bring them at lunch if I’m still not out by then.”

Sirius glances at the clock on the wall. “I’ll do you one better,” he says, leaping to his feet and dusting off his hands. “If I run I can grab them for you before class.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Madam Pomfrey chides, “because your friend deserves to _rest_ , seeing as he’s had an _eventful night_ ,” but Remus beams up at him, and Sirius has never really been stopped by Madam Pomfrey anyway.

The dormitory is empty again when Sirius barges in, eyes peeled for Remus’ requested stack of books, though there’s the sound of trickling water and a squeaking faucet that suggests James has returned from Quidditch practice. Sirius pauses for a moment to adjust his tie in the mirror on his dresser — he’s been slipping more and more lately, he knows, days where his collar doesn’t quite cover his tie round the back of his neck, when the knot doesn’t sit quite flat against his throat, stuff that would make his mother cluck and hiss — then hefts his own stack of textbooks into his arms on his way to Remus’ bed. 

Sirius suppresses an uncomfortable shudder as he glances at Remus’ tidied space against the lived-in clutter of the rest of the dormitory. The bed is made up properly, the pillows lined up evenly and the blankets free of wrinkles, a sharp contrast against the rest of their lopsided pillows and untucked sheets. There’s something about knowing that it wasn’t slept in last night, that its owner spent the night on a floor, that makes Sirius distinctly unhappy. He glances at the photographs on the bedside table — a moving picture of an infant in the arms of a woman, a man standing above her, their faces turned to each other, and a still photograph of Remus and a tall man that must be his father, which Sirius assumes must have been taken on a Muggle camera by Remus’ mother. He frowns; being here in Remus’ space when Remus himself isn’t feels like intruding on the last bit of space that Remus has control over. Sirius shakes his head and tries not to look too much at anything else as he shuffles through the textbooks stacked on the trunk at the foot of the bed.

“Peter?” Sirius jumps and spins around, dropping a textbook in the process, to see James sticking his head through the half-open bathroom door. “Oh. It’s you. I thought I heard someone.”

“Me,” Sirius agrees. “Peter’s at breakfast, I should think.”

James opens the bathroom door all the way and retreats into the bathroom again — presumably to comb his hair, which Sirius makes a sport out of laughing at and which the professors all despair over. “What time is it?”

“You’d better hurry if you want a chance at grabbing something to eat before Transfiguration,” Sirius says, bending down to pick up the books he dropped. He frowns again as he picks one up, running his fingers over the scuffed corners. “You’ll be lucky to get dressed in time for class, at this rate.”

“Nah, McGonagall knows how much is riding on this match. Just think, we might get the Cup this year — ”

“Mm,” Sirius hums, because as much as he hates class, between high marks and the Quidditch Cup, he knows what’s more likely to pull favour with his parents.

“I know, your family are too snobby for all that,” James continues, and Sirius hums again, just loudly enough to let him know he’s still listening, though he’s distracted by the inscription on the inside of the book cover he’s just picked up. _Happy birthday to my favourite son_ , it says.

“Must be nice,” Sirius mutters sourly, all thoughts of Remus waiting patiently for him in the Hospital Wing suddenly gone from his mind.

“What?”

Sirius glances up. James is standing in the bathroom doorway again, comb in hand, towel around his shoulders and shirt hanging half-open, unbuttoned. “Nothing,” he says, snapping the book shut again. “I didn’t hear you. What were you saying?”

“Just talking about how fun this’ll be, to hold this over your brother’s head,” James says. He tosses his comb onto his bed and starts buttoning up his shirt. “You know, first they got thrashed by us, then we _win_ the whole Cup — ”

Sirius nods, blocking James’ ramble from his mind as he reads over the cover of Remus’ book. It’s one of the books his parents sent him last year for his birthday, Sirius realises, one of the few books Remus owns that wasn’t bought second-hand. It’s not a textbook, either, just worn down from the dozens of times Remus has flipped through it. He runs his fingers over the embossed lettering on the book jacket. _Against the Dark Arts_ , it’s called.

Narcissa’s cold whisper rings in Sirius’ ear; he lifts a hand to an imaginary itch along his temple where her breath tickled his hair. _Occlumency_. He still hasn’t quite figured out what she really meant to tell him — did she _know_ what he was thinking about? — and what’s a single word like that even supposed to _mean_? — but he has an idea, and his hands shake as he flips through the pages, searching for an index at the back. _Occlumency occlumency occlumency_.

James is still talking about Quidditch and some new formations that Madelina has been drilling them all on — “I mean, she’s insane if she thinks that we can pull all this off by _next_ week. _Next week_ ! I mean, Julieta’s good, but she’s not about to get signed by the Harpies, not the way she handles passes from her right” — but Sirius can barely register what he’s saying. He scans through the dense blocks of text, irritation mounting — how Remus can read through this and consider it all _fun_ in comparison to a day out on the pitch is honestly beyond him — but finally, halfway through page 267, he finds his answer.

 _Occlumency is practised as a form of defensive magic against Legilimency. It was first written about by Mairsile the Magnanimous, advisor to the Muggle Prince of Wales Llywelyn the Great_ , _whose continued dominance over Wales in the 13th century was largely owed to Mairsile’s use of Legilimency to extract strategic information from other reigning princes. Though Occlumency has a wide range of application beyond defense against Legilimency_ , _it is predicted there are fewer than half the number of Legilimens who are equally trained in Occlumency given the difficult nature of the skill and the high demand it places upon the —_

Sirius tosses the book back on Remus’ trunk, heart pounding and mind reeling. He was right. _Narcissa_ was right when she guessed what was on his mind. He hoists Remus’ bag upon his other shoulder, trying to slow his thoughts. He’s not really sure where to go from here; it’s not as if he’s made a terribly big leap, going from suspecting what Occlumency is all about to confirming it. There’s no question that Narcissa thinks he should do his own work on it — the family isn’t about coddling and tutoring each other, after all — but the rest of the paragraph in Remus’ book seems to be on the history of and not how to actually _do_ it, and for the first time in his life, Sirius thinks he wants to actually learn something.

“Sirius!”

Sirius nearly drops his books at the sound of James’ voice. “What?”

“If you’re planning to get those to Remus before we’re due to McGonagall, you’d better get going now.”

Sirius glances at Remus’ bag hanging at his side, forgotten. “Oh,” he says dumbly. “Right.”

James gives him a curious look as he tightens his tie. Sirius doesn’t point out the spot where his collar hasn’t flipped down all the way, leaving his tie peeking out under his robes. “Coming?”

Sirius nods. “Coming,” he says, and turns his back on Remus’ bed.

**//**

**late may 1973**

James wakes earlier than the rest of his friends on the day of Gryffindor’s match against Ravenclaw. The pink sunrise is visible through a crack in the curtains — Remus has fallen asleep on the seat by the window, his History of Magic essay propped up in his lap and one of those Muggle ballpoint pens in his hand, still looking a bit peaky after the moon — and the rest of the dormitory’s quiet chaos is just barely visible in the sliver of early morning light. James peels away his covers gently and tip-toes to the bathroom, then promptly stubs his toe on Sirius’ trunk and hisses.

Remus yawns and wrenches his eyes open. “Morning,” he says groggily, glancing at his wristwatch. Peter snores. “No practice today?”

James shakes his head. “Madelina doesn’t want to tire us out before the match.”

Remus hums. “Mm. Well, she’s got some sense, then.” He tosses his pen on top of his essay and hugs his knees to his chest. “What’s the team thinking, then? Win or lose?”

“Not sure. Madelina says it could go either way. We’ve got a huge lead from our game against Slytherin, but Ravenclaw have got Chang, and he’s probably the only Seeker here that could give Madelina a scare. He’s going to play for the Tornadoes next year.”

Remus nods slowly. “I’ll pretend I know what that means,” he says, standing up and padding over to his bed. “Wake me up when it’s time for breakfast.”

Madelina’s already at the breakfast table when James saunters down to the Great Hall, standing with a comb clenched between her teeth while she pulls Marlene’s hair into two plaits to match her own. Julieta Nicholls sits next to them, hair already braided, and waves at James when she spots him. 

“Nice hair,” James says.

Julieta jerks her thumb in Madelina’s direction. “She wants us to match. Team spirit and all that.”

“Try not to sound like I’m forcing you to march to your death, yeah?” Madelina says. “Morning, Potter. Brought your band of fans with you, I see.”

“We’re here for support! Anything for the team,” Peter says, a little loudly. 

Madelina raises her eyebrows at him and wrinkles her nose. “All right. Try not to distract him, though, yeah? Meadowes, stop playing around with Marlene’s gloves, she’s got to focus now. Black, you too. Jules — for the love of Merlin, stop playing with your hair — where’s your brother?”

“No idea.”

“All right, well, he’d better be here in the next five minutes. I don’t want you all rushing through breakfast and then ending up sick on the pitch. Potter, _no_ — pumpkin juice is going to leave you bloated and you’ll fly slower — ”

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” Remus says doubtfully.

“ — quiet, Lupin — keep it light, all of you. Don’t stuff yourselves. Meadowes, stop offering McKinnon tea, she can’t have caffeine or she’ll get shaky. Nicholls, _finally_. I was going to send your sister to find you. Pritchard’s on his way, I hope?”

“Mads, give it a rest,” Lucas Thornton says, silencing her, to everyone’s relief. “You’ll wear them out before they’ve even gotten started. Come on, eat something yourself — _no_ , no more coffee for you — ”

Madelina spends all of breakfast monitoring the rest of the team with a hawk-like eye anyway, and then promptly begins shooing them towards the grounds at half an hour before the start of the match. James’ stomach tightens a little as Sirius whoops loudly and gets a round of applause going up and down the table, and when he glances over at Marlene, he’s relieved to see her looking equally uneasy.

“Liven up a bit, will you?” Lucas says, poking James in the back. “She won’t _actually_ kill you if we lose, you know.”

“I can _hear_ you.”

“Come on, it’ll be great. Just have fun.”

“Yeah,” Madelina agrees, holding the door to the locker rooms open for them. “Have fun. But win if you can, or I'll be _incredibly_ embarrassed and kill you.”

The sun is blindingly bright on the pitch; Madelina clucks in irritation — “It’ll be impossible to keep track of the Snitch in these conditions. Look at this — not even a cloud in the sky!” — when they first walk out onto the pitch and lifts a hand to shield her eyes. It’s cloyingly humid, too, paired with a pleasant breeze strong enough to sway James’ broom when he takes to the air. He nods curtly to the Ravenclaw Chaser opposite him and then squints down at the ground to watch as Madelina tilts her chin up to Fei Chang, who’s at least a head taller than her, and shakes his hand in a grip hard enough to break his fingers.

 _“Have fun” indeed_ , he thinks.

The whistle blows, all four balls float up into the air, suspended in time for a minute, and then the Quaffle is lost in a blur of matching scarlet robes as Lucas darts forward and seizes it out of the air.

“And they’re off!” someone says — it’s Davey Gudgeon, James realises, commentating his first match since he’s no longer able to play — and the crowd cheers in response. In the overly bright light, the Gryffindor crowd seems especially garish, red and gold flags glittering cheerfully against the sea of blue; Slytherin and most of Hufflepuff have turned out in support of Ravenclaw. “Thornton with the Quaffle, quick pass to Julieta Nicholls, a smooth dodge to avoid that rogue Bludger there and now it’s with Potter, back to Nicholls, back to Potter _again_ — of course, it’ll be interesting to see how Gryffindor perform in this match as they’re a much younger team than Ravenclaw, and all eyes are on second-years Potter and McKinnon by the goalposts — ”

“You’re a _fourth year_!” Lucas bellows as he rushes past the stands, catching the Quaffle easily as James lobs it in his direction. “'Young team' — unbelievable — ”

“Lucas, would you _focus_?” Madelina yells without even looking. “He _doesn’t matter_!”

Lucas grins cheekily and feints to the right before passing back to James. “Sorry, Mads!”

“Ravenclaw, of course, are the defending champions — have been for the last three years. They have most of their hopes riding on Seeker and Captain Fei Chang, who as we all know, has been marked to join the Tornadoes after this year as the first Muggle-born wizard to ever play Seeker with them.”

James wrinkles his nose. He’s never really spoken to Davey Gudgeon and has no idea what he’s really like to be around — besides the fact that he’s stupid enough to try touching the Whomping Willow — but bringing up the whole Muggle-born business is just weird. All the talk about Muggles has been grating on his nerves since Birmingham. It’s _Quidditch_ , for Merlin’s sake. It doesn’t matter if he’s a Squib or Muggle-born or from the Sacred Twenty-Eight. All that matters is whether or not he can fly.

“He’ll be trying to make up an eighty-point deficit coming into the match while also ending the match before his counterpart can,” Davey continues, “but Ravenclaw will have to find some space in Gryffindor’s formation if they want any chance at achieving that, but it looks like they’re already having some difficulty — Potter with the Quaffle dodges Waldron quickly, passes to Thornton, back to Potter, now to Nicholls — who fumbles and nearly misses — and Nicholls has done it! She opens the scoring for Gryffindor early on; it looks like Madelina Lau has no intention of letting up on Ravenclaw this time around. Of course, who can forget last year’s heartbreaking final for Gryffindor — just a margin of ten points — so Lau is likely trying for redemption this time around . . . ”

James glances over his shoulder at Madelina, who shows no signs of having heard anything coming out of Davey’s mouth and instead just points at Lucas in a reminder to stay close.

“And now it’s Waldron of Ravenclaw with the Quaffle,” Davey is saying, “who Gryffindor will have to watch out for, she’s another member of the team who — rumour has it, the Harpies have their eyes on — _oh_ , caught by a Bludger from Joseph Nicholls — will Thornton take? — _no_ , it’s now in the hands of Schmidt, who passes it back . . . Waldron to Coleman, back to Schmidt, back to — intercepted by Thornton! Thornton passes immediately to Potter, who’s managing to outpace Schmidt — that’s one of the new Cleansweep models — well, not so new anymore, but certainly more up-to-date than Schmidt’s Comet — he’s inside the scoring area now, Nicholls doing a good job of making some space — _oh_ — well-placed Bludger by Finlay there, but looks like Nicholls has picked up the Quaffle anyway, a mad scramble by Schmidt and Anderson to tackle but she passes back to Potter and — there it is! Potter adds to Gryffindor’s lead with another clean goal!”

The cheers from the Gryffindor crowd add to the rush of blood in James’ own ears. He pulls about on his broom for a second to look for his friends in the stands, but from this distance he can only clearly catch sight of Lily Evans’ red hair, and she’s too far away for him to read her expression. He can feel sweat starting to bead at his hairline and temples, trickling down the back of his neck; Lucas passes him the Quaffle again and he takes off down the pitch towards the Ravenclaw goalposts. The Slytherins boo as he streaks past, and James thinks he glimpses Regulus Black in the top row of the stands, watching with more interest than he’d expect from a Black. 

_This one’s for you_ , _Sirius_ , James thinks, lobbing the Quaffle at the goalposts again.

The game seems to go on forever. Ravenclaw manage to pull level in the next few minutes, but then Julieta takes an elbow to her face and wins a penalty; Marlene swerves to avoid a Bludger and lets in another goal, muttering with disgust as she rights herself on her broom again. The Gryffindor lead has just shrunk to forty points when Davey Gudgeon suddenly gasps and cries, “I think Chang’s seen the Snitch!”

Out of the corner of his eye, James catches sight of Fei Chang heading up the pitch, Madelina on his tail screaming, “Oh, for fuck’s sake! Stay focused, Potter!” as she speeds past in a blur of red and gold. But even despite her warning, both teams have stopped, suspended in mid-air to watch their two captains chase after the Snitch. James can see it now, the little gold ball flashing in the sunlight, dancing about in front of both Seekers.

“Chang can’t end the game yet,” Davey reminds everyone, “not with Gryffindor still holding a forty-point lead in the aggregate, but he’s certainly doing a good job of blocking Lau from catching the Snitch. Still, it’s a risky play — there’s no guarantee that Lau would’ve seen the Snitch anyway if he hadn’t drawn attention to it — oh! Lau’s nearly knocked off her broom by another well-timed Bludger from Mansell — Chang turns around to catch her — _that’s_ an interesting display of sportsmanship from the Ravenclaw captain — Lau looks a bit shaken but otherwise all right. Looks as if they’ve both lost sight of the Snitch, though . . . no, I spoke too soon!”

The stands fall eerily silent. James watches as Madelina dives to the ground, Chang nearly level with her, and topples neatly off her broom, fist clenched against the grass. She rolls over a couple of times and comes to a rest on her back, breathing heavily.

“I can’t tell if she’s caught it or she’s hurt herself,” Lucas says, but he’s laughing. 

James laughs, too; somewhere, in the pit of his stomach, the knot has released, because even before Madelina raises her fist in the air and climbs back on her broom to make a victory lap, he knows the answer.

It’s the first Quidditch cup for any of them; Gryffindor’s last victory was six years ago. Madelina nearly pulls James off his broom when they land again and draws him into a hug with Julieta and Lucas that goes on for so long that Julieta has to disentangle herself by climbing out between their legs. “I think that’s enough hugging,” she says, moving to stand next to her brother instead.

“Nowhere _near_ enough,” Madelina says, pulling back with tears welling up in her eyes. “Well-played, Potter. Oi — McKinnon, get over here. Oh, I’m so _proud_ of you two — not bad for your first year on the team, right? Just means you’ll have to work extra hard next year to keep it up. I’ve already got some notes for improvement — remind me to pass them on later this week, won’t you?”

“You’re not seriously thinking about next year _already_ , are you?” Marlene says in disbelief, but Madelina has already turned away, caught up in receiving Madam Hooch’s congratulations and a rare handshake of approval from McGonagall.

Fei Chang is a surprisingly gracious loser for a Seeker who’s won his team the Quidditch Cup for the last three years, James thinks. He watches as Chang makes his way down the line, shaking hands with Nathaniel Pritchard and Joseph Nicholls before congratulating Marlene on her saves — “I’ll be honest, I think I underestimated you,” he quips, and Marlene flushes bright red — and then he moves onto James and the rest of the Chasers.

“Nice job,” he says, when he gets to Madelina. “Well done.”

Madelina smiles smugly up at him. “Thank you,” she says.

Chang snorts. “What’s that look for?” he says, but he’s grinning as he sticks his hand out for another handshake. “We were never going to make up the eighty points you had coming into this match. You know I let you win this one, right?”

Madelina raises her eyebrows. She grips Chang’s hand, and for a moment, James thinks she put him in a headlock, but then she smiles even wider and says, “No, you didn’t.”

Chang nods. “No,” he agrees, pulling Madelina close by her hand and cupping her face in his other hand, “I didn’t.” 

The Ravenclaw team roars with delight, and James boos along with the rest of his team as Madelina stands on the tips of her toes to meet Chang’s kiss.

**//**

“What took you so long?” Frank Longbottom demands, leaping to his feet as soon as the portrait-hole opens and the team clambers in. “Patricia went down to the kitchens to get us supper so we could celebrate here instead. We’ve been waiting forever.”

“McGonagall gave us this big, teary speech in the locker rooms,” Lucas says, at the same time Marlene yells, “Madelina and Fei Chang are in _loooooove_!” 

“ _Excuse_ me?” Alice says, scrambling to sit upright in the armchair where she’s been lazily splayed out for the last twenty minutes. “Madelina and Fei? _That’s_ why you asked Edgar if you could switch Prefect patrols with Frank? So you could spend all night _running around the castle_ together?”

“They kissed,” James snickers.

Madelina flushes bright red. “That was a celebratory kiss,” she says, though she doesn’t say anything else when Alice raises her eyebrows. 

“Well, if you were talking about your feelings with a _certain_ Seeker, I can forgive you for making us wait to start the party,” Alice says, handing Madelina a bottle with no label that James suspects must be smuggled in from Hogsmeade. “But don’t make us wait any longer, will you?”

Madelina tosses her head back and laughs. “Wait, wait, wait — everybody shut up! Thanks. All right. Um, I’d like to propose a toast. Firstly, to Nathaniel and you, Joseph — I don’t know what I’d do without the two of you on the team — um — and Jules, obviously — you’re a life-saver on penalties.” She giggles again, beaming at the little crowd gathered around her. “Oh, and you, of course, McKinnon, you’ve saved us more than once, and Potter. Not bad for a second-year. Um, it’s good to know the team will be in good hands in a couple of years once we’re gone. And Lucas — thanks for being the best friend, right-hand man — I don’t know what to call you — thanks for being an excellent teammate, though.” She thrusts the bottle up in the air. “Also, _fine_ , Fei is hopelessly in love with me — calm _down_ , Alice — and he says that if he had to lose his winning streak to anyone he’s glad it’s to my team, so . . . good job, I guess. Um . . . yeah, I’m really proud of all of you.”

“ _Great_ speech, Mads,” Lucas says.

Madelina makes a rude gesture towards him. “Anyway,” she says, taking a swig, “here’s to winning the fucking Quidditch Cup!”

Everyone in the common room cheers. James snags a case of Butterbeer from the steps near the portrait-hole and slips behind Frank’s chair to sit next to his friends; Peter scrunches his nose. “What’s that?” he asks, pointing.

“Butterbeer,” James says. The thought of someone never having tasted Butterbeer is entirely foreign to him, but one glance around the group says he’s the only one who’s had it.

“ _Beer_?” Peter exclaims disbelievingly.

“Oh, don’t be such an idiot, Peter,” Sirius says, lifting a bottle. “It’s not real alcohol. Though I wouldn’t mind some of the real stuff.” He casts a meaningful glance in the direction of the older students, who have already begun enthusiastically uncorking bottles of Firewhiskey and what looks to James like the kind of vodka his mother keeps on the top shelf of their cupboard _for emergencies_. “My parents never let us have this at home.”

“Too posh for it, I expect,” James says. “Here, Remus, take one. You look a bit pale. Shouldn’t you be all right, this time of month?”

“Shh,” Remus says, even though no one’s within earshot. He takes the Butterbeer anyway, raising it in a casual toast. “You have to feel a bit bad, don’t you, for Fei Chang? He’s probably taking the piss from the Slytherins now.”

“Think my brother might’ve had money on the match,” Sirius agrees. “Serves him right, anyway. He throws around his pocket money far too much. Thinks he’s a fifth-year, or something. Oi, Mack, over here. James has got us Butterbeer.”

James snorts. “Chang's probably just happy Madelina didn’t try to strangle him when he kissed her.”

Marlene plops down next to him and pops the top off a bottle. “Oh, you’re talking about Fei and Madelina? That was so sweet. They seem like they’ll be a really fun pair. Their babies are going to be _amazing_ at Quidditch. Seeking’s probably in their genes.”

“Christ, they haven’t even left school yet,” Remus laughs.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” says Marlene. “I’d bet five Galleons Fei and Madelina get married. I didn’t really see it at first, you know, but now that it’s happened — well, it seems right. It’s sweet, at any rate.” She gestures around the room vaguely. “I mean, most of us with wizarding parents — our parents met in school. Take a good look around the room, Remus, because if you marry a witch, she might already be here.”

James looks away quickly, trying to think about who’d be the least awkward person to look at after that statement. Mary MacDonald is giggling and talking to Joseph Nicholls; Dorcas Meadowes would probably hex his mouth shut if he even looked at her for any reason. He decides to fix his eyes on Evans, hoping she’s too absorbed in her book to take any notice of what Marlene’s just said. 

“Not a chance, Potter,” she snaps, proving him wrong. 

James splutters in a _who_ , _me_? sort of way, and turns back to his friends; Peter’s staring forlornly at Madelina across the common room. “Chin up,” James says, “she’s about three years too old for you anyway.”

“Yeah, who knows, maybe Chang will dump her once he’s played for the Tornadoes and all the fame goes to his head.”

“Don’t give him any ideas,” Remus chides.

Sirius snickers and tosses back the rest of his drink. “ _Then_ you can swoop in and comfort her.”

Peter’s eyes light up, and Remus sighs despairingly. Across the room, Lucas Thornton finishes an entire bottle of champagne to wild cheers from the rest of the fifth-years and loud whooping from the sixth- and seventh-years. 

Marlene raises her bottle to James. “Here's to winning, as Madelina says, the fucking Quidditch cup.”

James looks around the circle of his friends and grins back at her. “Here's to winning the fucking Quidditch cup,” he agrees, and downs the rest of his drink in one.


	13. xii. the house of black, the nováks, and the question of fate

_isn’t all that rage so ugly?_  
_and isn’t it mine, still?_  
_good god, isn’t it mine?_

— ashe vernon, _buried_

**late june 1973**

As the train pulls into the platform, Sirius sits up a little bit straighter, eyeing the platform for any sign of his parents. It’s absolutely packed, with no sign of the wide berth usually afforded to them, and he relaxes for a second, thinking that maybe they’ve only sent Kreacher, but then he catches sight of the top of Bellatrix’s head and groans. There’ll be no getting out of the station without at least one uncomfortable interaction. Kreacher might draw some odd looks, but at least most wizarding folk have seen enough house elves to keep their heads on. Bellatrix doesn’t just attract looks, she attracts terror and awe. Maybe she should’ve been the heir. A miniature Walburga Black would’ve been better than a son in Gryffindor.

“Maybe she’s just here for Narcissa,” says Remus doubtfully.

Sirius snorts. “Unlikely. Bellatrix never passes up an opportunity to act as my parents’ envoy. I suppose it makes her feel like she’s getting more of the attention, which she will be, once she’s collected me and Regulus. Ah, speaking of.”

Regulus is standing just outside the compartment door, still in his robes, dragonhide bag in hand. Sirius raises his eyebrows. _Tacky_. “There you are,” Regulus says, sounding annoyed. “You should’ve told me you’d be sitting here, all the way at the end. I looked like an idiot, sticking my head into every compartment to check.”

“Didn’t know you cared so much about me,” Sirius grins. “Did you see Bellatrix out there? Looks like married life is treating her terribly. Or well. I can’t tell if looking like that is a sign that she’s happy.”

Regulus glances around the rest of the compartment as if the very idea of talking about their family around these strangers, or whatever James and Peter and Remus are, is treasonous. Sirius thinks, not for the first time, how spending some time in his compartment — or any compartment, for that matter, any of them except the ones with all the Slytherins — would do Regulus good.

“You shouldn’t talk about family like that,” Regulus says dubiously. “Mother wouldn’t be very happy to hear it.”

“Well, she’s only going to hear it from you, so good thing you’re not going to go ratting me out, eh? Go on without me, I’ll be another few minutes.”

Regulus purses his lips in an unintentional imitation of their mother. Sirius prepares to hit him with some snipe about how he must not understand the concept of having friends to say goodbye to, but before he can, Regulus nods tightly, turns around, and pops open the the train door, hopping down to the platform without a second glance.

“He’s like an old man already,” Sirius says, frowning at his friends. “It’s so weird. I wouldn’t be surprised if my parents tried to make _him_ the heir.”

“You’ll be all right over the hols?” James says. “There’s still time to bail, I see my parents out on the platform. Reckon my dad could take your cousin in a duel for custody?”

Sirius barks a laugh. “Oh, no question.” He sighs. “Better play it safe, though. My parents will want me around for Narcissa’s wedding in July, but I should be able to get away towards the end, if I manage to behave myself and not incur the wrath of any Black elders.”

James makes a face. “Good luck with that. Write me as soon as you can get away. You too, Remus. I know the m — well, you know — but if you can get away at the end of August before term starts, that’d be wicked.” 

“I’ll try,” Remus says unconvincingly. The last full moon of the term was just a few days ago, and he still looks pathetic and pale, like his trunk would be enough to crush and kill him. He turns to Sirius. “Take care of yourself.”

Sirius laughs again. “ _Me_? Have you even seen yourself, Remus? You should take your own advice.”

Remus smiles forcedly. “I will,” he says. He scratches the back of his neck. “But you — well — the way you talk about your family worries me sometimes, that’s all. Look out for yourself.”

“You worry too much. Leave the worrying about my family to me, all right? I’ll write you — no, I’ll steal you all party favours from Narcissa’s wedding. There, that’s something to look forward to besides seeing whether I’m alive at the end of the holidays.”

“Yeah, I can’t wait to get an owl out of nowhere bearing some pureblood propaganda,” James says. He tugs on Peter’s shirt. “Come on, Peter, let’s go. Your mum’s out on the platform too, I think.”

Sirius pushes Remus ahead of him and then follows after the rest of his friends, jumping out of the train door and landing next to Regulus so forcefully that his brother startles and glares over his shoulder. “That’s not funny,” Regulus scolds. “We’re in public and you’re embarrassing us.”

“Is that right?” Sirius says airily. “Well, at least I’m drawing attention for being fun, not for looking like a wet dishrag.”

Regulus scowls. “Bella and Narcissa are waiting for us.”

Bellatrix wrinkles her nose at Sirius as he approaches as if she’s looking at wild dog and not her cousin. “There you are. Finally. Took you long enough.”

“Sorry,” Sirius says, “some of us have friends to say goodbye to.”

Bellatrix gives him an odd look. “ _Friends_?” she echoes. “Surely not the group Narcissa tells me about. Contaminated by half-blood filth and blood traitors, from the looks of it.”

“James Potter’s a pure-blood,” Sirius says, already wishing he’d taken up James’ offer to stay at his for the entire holiday. 

Bellatrix presses her lips together nastily. “Blood traitors,” she repeats. Then, louder, as she starts walking, “Your mother is looking forward to seeing you two again.”

Sirius grinds his teeth and glances over at Regulus, who, to his comfort, looks equally put-out at the mention of Walburga. No doubt he’s finally beginning to experience the disappointment of being confined within the walls of Grimmauld Place again after several months spent free of its gloom. On the far end of the platform, Sirius can spot Andromeda saying her final goodbyes to the rest of her fellow seventh-years; Ted Tonks’ tall frame and sandy hair are visible amongst the crowd of hugging students even from here.

Bellatrix and Narcissa take him and Regulus back to Grimmauld Place by Side-Along Apparition, landing neatly on the top step next to each other with barely a hair out of place. Regulus looks mildly sick and pushes past them into the foyer as soon as the front door is open, mumbling something about needing to use the bathroom and lie down before supper. 

“Pathetic,” Bellatrix remarks, watching as he runs up the stairs. 

“Bella,” Narcissa says placatingly, “he’s twelve. Give him a break.” Sirius spots the telltale shadow of his mother approaching from the living room; seeing the change in his eyes, Narcissa forces a smile onto her face. “Aunt Walburga. It’s nice to see you again."

“You too, dear. Go on into the living room, your parents are looking forward to see you. Thank you, Bellatrix, for fetching them from the station.” Walburga sighs smugly — an affect Sirius has come to recognise as a sign she’s been drinking — and turns her attention to her son. “Sirius.”

“Mother,” he says, as pleasantly as he can manage.

Walburga looks him up and down and purses her lips. “I thought I told you we were having supper with your cousins tonight and to dress appropriately,” she says.

She probably did, but Sirius is fairly sure the message was probably lost in one of the many letters he threw into the common room fireplace without reading. “The train was hot,” he says lamely, hoping he can get through at least the first five minutes of being home without angering his mother. “I’ll go upstairs and change before dinner.”

Dinner is a muted affair, especially compared to the last six months of raucous shouting and practical jokes that usually happen at the Gryffindor table. Rodolphus is there, of course, though he mostly just simpers at Bellatrix’s elbow and nods in agreement at everything that is said, and Narcissa has become too uptight to do anything but smile tightly at everyone and takes frequent sips of her wine. Sirius sorely misses Andromeda’s presence. He should’ve said goodbye to her on the train, he thinks. Who knows when the next time they’ll see each other is. 

“The Dolohovs have a daughter his age,” Uncle Cygnus is saying, and Sirius rolls his eyes. Always with the family line. “Marek and I still see each other frequently at The République. There’s quite a sizable dowry in it for you and Orion. It’s a shame Antonin and An — ”

“The Dolohovs are perfectly acceptable,” Walburga says before Cygnus can speak of Andromeda, her mouth set in a thin little line that suggests she would rather smoke gillyweed than marry either of her sons to their daughter, “but the family can do better for our heir than a family of deposed political elites.”

“Ah, well then — speaking of my last meeting with Dolohovs — let me tell you, my dear sister, who I met just last week when we were at République for dinner. Minister Jenkins — ”

Walburga frowns. “Cygnus, you know just as well as I that Jenkins is a half-witted, Muggle filth-loving fool. I suppose that’s bound to happen when your father is a Squib.”

“ _R_ _umoured_ to be a Squib,” Rodolphus puts in.

“ _Rumoured to be_ is as good as simply _being_ one,” Bellatrix says.

“Yes, we’re all very tired of Minister Jenkins and her ridiculous feel-good policies,” Cygnus agrees. “I wasn’t too pleased to see her myself. But she had guests, you see — a diplomatic envoy in tow — and who should be there but Oliver and Sabina Novák.”

Sirius tries not to let his lip curl visibly and scans the rest of the table for any side conversations to focus on, but everyone save Regulus is clearly straining to hang onto Cygnus’ every word. Sirius sighs. He’s heard of the Nováks, of course, from History of Magic and a couple of older students training for Ministry careers — they’re one of the oldest wizarding families in Czechoslovakia, and Sabina Nováková is the Czechoslovak Premier for Magic — but he has little interest in whatever mix of politics and dowry negotiations is going on right now.

“Anyway, of course Marek knows Oliver very well, so we started talking. And they have two daughters,” Cygnus continues glibly, “one Narcissa’s age and one just under a year older than Sirius.” He takes a sip of his wine and smiles smugly at Walburga. “Tereza would be a lovely addition to the family.”

Walburga’s eyes glint in the candlelight. “I’m sure she would. This was last week? How long are the Nováks in London for?”

“Until the end of the month. I told them you’d love to have them for supper before they return to Prague.”

Sirius grimaces. His plan for the summer mostly involved lying low and staying in his room, out of the range of his parents’ regime, gritting his teeth to get through Narcissa’s wedding in one piece without jinxing Lucius Malfoy, and then very politely asking his parents if he could stay with the Potters. Hosting the Nováks wasn’t really part of it.

As if reading his mind, Regulus mutters, “I wish Uncle Alphard was here,” more to his rice pilaf than anyone else. 

Relieved that there’s finally a bit of new insight to this dull circus that he can finally relate to, Sirius glances over at him. “Me too. I didn’t know you liked seeing Uncle Alphard that much.”

“Well, it’s boring without him and Andromeda.” He frowns at the adults at the other end of the table. “All _they_ do is talk about politics, and if it’s not that, it’s who’s getting married, and when.”

“It’s shit,” Sirius agrees, “but you should at least pretend to look interested, or else Mum will have your head. Besides, the discussion will be about you too, soon enough.”

“I wish some of my friends were here.”

Sirius snorts. The idea of Regulus having friends that he pulls pranks with and talks to is comical. Every time he’s seen Regulus at mealtimes, he’s always been smothered by Narcissa’s protective attention. “Don’t tell me you actually enjoy the company of people like Lucius Malfoy and Antonin Dolohov.” 

“I have classmates I _actually_ spend time with,” Regulus says stiffly. “You’re not the only one who’s got mates.”

“‘Mates’?” Sirius repeats. “Like who?”

Regulus shrugs. “You know, the same way you have your mates . . . Alistair Higgs, Parkinson, the rest of the first-years, and a couple of the second-years, too. Severus Snape’s great for Potions help.”

Sirius nearly chokes on his cider. “ _Snivellus_?”

Regulus gives him an odd look. “Yes,” he says. “I wouldn’t say we’re friends, necessarily, but we’ve spoken on quite a few occasions. He’s easy to get along with.”

“You know he’s a suck-up,” Sirius says, suddenly stabbing at his food with a bit more fervour. “A self-serving git, just floats around with whoever will take him.”

“You don’t know him,” Regulus says defensively, though Sirius can tell he doesn’t feel particularly confident about this assertion. “You never talk to the Slytherins.”

“That’s not true. We shared Potions this term, and Herbology before that.” Sirius takes another swig of cider. “We hang out with people who know how to handle themselves — like Kingsley, you know — not spineless losers like Snivellus.”

Regulus scowls. “He just behaves himself. Unlike _you_.”

“Reg — ”

“ _Regulus_.”

“Whatever. Reg, don’t you get it? He’s not easy to get along with, he just puts on his best behaviour for whoever he’s talking to. Lily Evans from my year is supposedly one of his oldest friends and he treats her like a house-elf when he’s with his mates, if that’s what you can even call scum like Leon Mulciber. And that’s the other thing — he’s friends with Leon Mulciber. _Mulciber_! You know he’s been going around spreading muck about our family, don’t you?” Sirius grits his teeth. Part of him feels embarrassed, annoyed that he trusted Regulus to have good judgment — at least good enough to avoid the likes of Severus Snape — and guilty that he let his brother feel so lonely that he’d desperately accept the friendship of anyone. “I can’t believe he has the gall to pander after you,” he spits. “He just likes the thought of being close to our family; Merlin knows he won’t get far without connections, with a name like Snape. And any chance of a friendship with me is long gone, so he’s settling for the next best thing.”

Regulus blanches. “ _Next best_?” he repeats sullenly. 

Sirius glances over at his brother again. Regulus is squinting at his plate, pushing his peas around in little circles. “Oh, come on. When are you going to toughen up? You and me, we’re just pieces in Mum and Dad’s little — I don’t even know what to call it.” He takes another bite of his chicken. “Believe me, being ‘the best’ isn’t much fun, either. You think I’m the favourite because Mum likes me better? No, they just give me more attention because I’m — ”

“Sirius, what _are_ you and your brother talking about?” Walburga says, craning her neck slightly to look at him from the far end of the table.

Sirius stares at his mother. He can’t tell if she heard anything or if she’s actually curious to know what they’re talking about. “Nothing,” he says casually. “Regulus misses his schoolmates.”

“Ah, that’s right,” says Cygnus, his complexion a little ruddy. “It was your first year. But surely you know most of your schoolmates already, and you’ll be seeing them in a few weeks at Narcissa’s wedding. There’s no need to be missing them so soon.”

Regulus nods blandly. Sirius rolls his eyes. It wouldn’t kill Regulus to respond to questions from the adults with more than silent head movements and one-word answers. If _he_ tried to reply to Uncle Cygnus with just a nod, his mother would smack him upside the head and reprimand him for sulking. “Well, not all of them will be in attendance, I think,” Sirius says, with a sideways glare at his brother, “because _some_ of them aren’t worthwhile company.”

Walburga raises her eyebrows. “Oh?”

Under the table, Regulus steps on Sirius’ toes. “Sirius is just being a _snob_ , as usual.”

Sirius snorts. “ _Me_ , a snob? I don’t hate you hanging around with Snape because I’m a snob, I hate it because he’s a slimy, two-faced git.”

“Sirius!” Walburga scolds, at the same time that Narcissa gasps and says, “I thought Severus Snape was a perfectly fine boy!”

“He’ll kiss the ground beneath anyone’s feet as long as he thinks they’ll come in useful in the future,” Sirius says darkly, feeling his face becoming uncomfortably hot. He lowers his voice. “Then again, I guess this family _would_ know an awful lot about sucking up.”

Regulus coughs loudly. Walburga turns nearly purple with rage, but before she can say anything, Sirius hears his father clear his throat. “Upstairs.”

Sirius pulls a face, unseen, as he gets up from the table. Kreacher’s food feels like chewing on cement compared to what he gets at school, anyway, he thinks. Maybe it’s just the company. He plods through the archway towards the stairs, sneering at Rodolphus and Bellatrix behind their backs as he passes.

“That school is letting you get ahead of yourself,” Walburga says sharply. 

“I tried to keep an eye on him this year — and last, too — but it's been difficult,” Narcissa says, with a dramatic, long-suffering sigh.

“Oh, believe me, dear, I know. He can be a disgrace sometimes.”

“Well, I hope he can behave himself when the Nováks come.”

Sirius blocks out his mother’s reply. He tugs at his collar, wiping at the sweat beading at the base of his neck. The thought of Severus Snape cosying up to Regulus is enough to make him want to punch the wall; as it is, he kicks at the doorframe of his room as he passes and throws himself down on his bed. 

He rolls over and looks out the window. It’s nearly dark, finally, and he can see the chalky, waning moon coming into focus against the violet of the night sky. Some two hundred miles off, Remus is probably enjoying his first night in months safe from someone discovering his secret, happily settled back with his parents. Sirius wonders if he's is looking at the moon, too.

He sighs. Next September can’t come soon enough.

**//**

The Nováks are far, far nicer than the Blacks.

Still somewhat recovering from the hour-long tirade in the morning in which his parents had called him to the study and threatened all sorts of punishment if he didn’t behave himself, Sirius adjusts the sleeves of his dress robes and stands up a little straighter under Walburga’s hawklike glare. 

“It’s our honour,” she’s saying while Oliver Novák kisses her hand. Looking at his mother’s hands, Sirius is briefly reminded of every time Hecuba has dug her talons into his arm. “After my brother said the two of you met a few weeks ago — and that he had mentioned dinner! — it was only right for us to invite you. And Premier — ”

“Sabina, please — ”

“Sabina, what an honour — you’ve met my brother already — and my husband, of course — ”

“Mr. Black,” Mr. Novák says, bowing deeply before Sirius’ father and holding out a rather large bottle, “I hope you do not mind that my wife and I have brought a gift. It is very popular where we come from — maybe you have heard of it? — for later.” His English, though good, is still heavily accented, and Sirius swallows the desire to laugh at the way he smiles so brightly at Orion Black, who stares back at him, stonefaced. 

“And of course, here,” Walburga says grandly, sweeping over to the staircase where Sirius and Regulus are both standing, as if she’s an artist opening an exhibit, “are my sons.”

Sirius nods. “Sirius,” he says, making sure to look Novák in the eye like he was told. He’s not sure if his mother can see him from where she’s standing, but after the homecoming dinner last week, he needs to be on his best behaviour if he’s going to have any chance of spending the last few weeks of the holidays with James. “Mrs. Nováková, Mr. Novák.”

Sabina Nováková beams. “So polite,” she says, glancing over Sirius’ shoulder at Orion and Walburga. Sirius imagines what must be going through his mother’s mind and tries not to laugh. He reminds himself to memorise every single interaction so he can relay it to James and Peter and Remus in a few months. “And of course, our daughters — Hana and Tereza — Tereza, dear, stop hiding behind your sister.”

Sirius has often heard — both directly and from Regulus — that he and Regulus bear a striking resemblance to each other, but Hana and Tereza couldn’t be more different. They’re like an inverse Bellatrix and Narcissa; Hana, pale and blonde, looks like a friendlier Narcissa, while Tereza stares at Sirius through enormous dark eyes and a mass of dark curls. She looks older than fourteen, he thinks. 

Hana just nods once from behind her mother. “Pleasure.”

“Yes,” Tereza says shyly, holding her hand out to Sirius to shake. “It’s a pleasure.”

Sirius swallows hard and shakes her hand, just once. His mother is going to flay him alive for it later — _Blacks don’t shake hands_! _You don’t associate yourself with Muggle traditions_ , _do you understand_? — but he doesn’t really care. The Nováks are all smiling so brightly and normally that he’s starting to think there’s something in the water in Britain that makes pure-bloods here so weird.

Sirius ends up sandwiched between Aunt Druella and Tereza during supper, but she seems particularly fixated on her food, so he just stares blankly across the table at Regulus and hopes that they still maintain some sort of non-verbal communication skills after practically a year of not having one of these dinner parties. 

“So how’re you finding London?” Sirius finally says to Tereza, after Regulus avoids numerous attempts to establish eye contact. “You’re here on holiday, right?”

“Yes,” Tereza says. “Our term ended a few weeks ago. My mother came here on business and thought she should bring us along.” She pokes at her lamb. “It’s a different kind of education, she says, travelling.”

“You don’t agree with her?”

“I do. But Hana and I also know it’s good publicity. During the term, we’re at school — the papers back home don’t get anything. When we travel with our mother, then all the papers show us. It makes her look better, you know. Back home they print all sorts of nasty things about her, as the premier and as a Novák. So I am okay with coming to England if it makes her and my father happy.”

Sirius grins. “They treat you like you’ve been blessed by Merlin himself back home, too? Just because you’re a Novák?”

“Oh, yes. Every time Hana and I go home for the winter holidays — so many invitations to Christmas parties. Everyone wants Hana to marry into their family.” Tereza rolls her eyes, though she keeps staring at her food. “Some families will do anything to say they are connected to the Nováks. I like it better at school. It’s further away; fewer people are obsessed with us.” She glances over at Sirius finally. “It’s the same for you? Even at Durmstrang, we know about the House of Black.”

“Believe me, it’s not much better here. Everyone at school knows about this family. Even some of the teachers try too hard to stay close.”

“And you are the oldest son. The heir. Lots of people want to marry you, too.”

“I think that was the aim of tonight’s dinner, for my parents.”

“Yes, I thought so.” She looks him up and down. “Your mother and my father could run a match-making service.” She takes a sip of her wine, purses her lips together to stomach the acidity. “He is obsessed with the Novák name. I think he is terribly disappointed Hana is not a boy, like you.”

“Well, I can tell you that she dodged a bullet.”

Tereza wrinkles her brow. “I’m not familiar with that phrase.”

“Being the heir is just a game,” Sirius says, dropping his voice so Druella can’t hear. “My parents care more about it than I do. Sometimes I wish it wasn’t me.”

Tereza sets her fork and knife down deliberately and wipes her mouth with her napkin. “Yes,” she agrees. “I wish I was not a Novák. But being _pravý_ in Czechoslovakia — it is a business. My father is here to negotiate a contract with your mother. So here we are.”

**//**

**mid-july 1973**

Remus wakes to the blurry sight of his father standing with his back to him. It’s an unusual but welcome sight compared to the usual peeling wallpaper and splintering ceiling panels in the Shrieking Stack, but his heart sinks guiltily as he takes in his father’s tired, stooped figure in the doorway, wand in hand. His head’s pounding; he wants to say something, but it feels weird to disturb his father, and even as he opens his mouth, he can barely speak, his throat scratchy and raw from a night spent screaming and howling.

His room’s a mess — it always is after the full moon, in the awkward hours between when the moon goes down and when his father comes in to put everything back in order — but as Remus blinks and looks at the shape of his father in the doorway again, he becomes painfully aware that the walls are not where they are supposed to be. The bedspread is the wrong colour; the window is on the wrong wall. His books aren’t there. He’s in the wrong place.

He pulls himself into a sitting position, coughs, and then promptly doubles over and retches on the rug. His father is there in seconds, _scourgify_ -ing the puddle of sick as soon as it appears and dragging a blanket over Remus’ shoulders. “Take it easy,” he says, sounding very much like he has been doing anything but taking it easy for the last few hours. “I’ll — would you — er — would you like something to drink? Tea? Water?”

Remus pinches the bridge of his nose. “Tea.”

“Right. Well — I’ll be back in a moment. You — stay where you are.”

“Okay.” Remus watches his father disappear downstairs and glances around what he now realises is his parents’ bedroom, freshly marked-up with claw marks. Panic seizes him for a moment; why is he here, where is his mother? In over seven years of full moons, never has he been woken and greeted by his father. 

“What happened?” he asks, when his father returns, mug in one hand and wand still out in the other. His father’s fingers have gone white around the knuckles, tightened painfully around the wood. “Where’s Mum?”

Lyall coughs uncomfortably. “I sent her away via Floo,” he says. He sets his jaw, ending the conversation, but then looks at Remus and continues, “She spent the night at the Ministry. In my office, I presume.”

The pieces click together, and Remus flushes, ashamed, a barely-there image of his bedroom door moments before he threw himself against it last night flashing in his mind. “I almost killed her, didn’t I?” Lyall is silent. “Didn’t I? I got out of my room?”

“But nothing happened,” Lyall says. As if to prove his point, he flicks his hand wordlessly, restoring the bedroom to order, and sets his wand down on top of the bureau. “Your mother is fine. You can go back to sleep. I’ll fetch her and she’ll be here later today when you wake up. Go on. Do you need help getting back to your room?”

Remus shakes his head and crawls to his feet, swaying in place a little. He’s had months of hiking back up to the castle on Madam Pomfrey’s arm, surely he can manage ten feet across the hall. 

He’s about halfway to his room when his vision swirls and he feels his father’s grip on his arm as the floor comes racing up to meet him.

When he wakes again, it smells like hibiscus flowers and fresh linen.

He shuts his eyes again and buries his head in the blankets, chasing after the smell. It’s his mother’s perfume, he knows, and he can feel her hand on his cheek now, soft and gentle and safe as she strokes his hair out of his face. He’s missed her so much, he realises.

“Mum,” he whispers, reaching up to his face to touch her hand. “I think I almost killed you last night.”

Hope makes a noise halfway between a sob and a laugh. “No, you didn’t,” she says quietly, brushing another tuft of hair away from his eyes. “Your dad was there. It was all right. Everything’s all right.”

The flickering image of his bedroom door, milliseconds away from splintering from the force of his body, won’t go away. “I got out and almost killed you,” he repeats, his chest hurting from holding in tears. “I’m a monster.”

He can hear his mother shaking her head, hear the sound her hair makes where it presses into the wall. “No, sweetheart,” she whispers. She squeezes his hand. “No, you’re not a monster. Don’t ever apologise for this, you understand me? You will never be a monster, not to me.”

Remus pulls his blankets closer to his chin and opens his eyes again, staring at the gingham pattern of his mother’s apron, bunched up in her lap next to his head. He can feel her crying, can hear her trying to keep her breathing even. The familiar feeling of shame curdles in the pit of his empty stomach. This isn’t what his mother wants, he thinks. If she could have seen this when she met his father — the broken door hinges and the deep gouges in the floorboards and the torn-up blankets — she would have run away, far, far away, taken her chances with anyone else. Staying here, even now — it’s self-sabotage.

Remus sighs and pulls the fabric of his mother’s apron over his eyes, inhaling the leftover scent of years of pies and cakes stuck in the threads. _That’s what love is_ , he supposes dully, in a fit of humorous self-loathing. _Returning over and over to someone — something — that will eventually undoubtedly kill you_. 

“Oh, by the way,” Hope says suddenly, and her voice is cheerful and steady again. Remus lifts his head from her lap to look at her. “An unfriendly-looking owl dropped something off for you this morning.” She reaches over to his nightstand and hands him a parcel wrapped untidily in what looks like several pages of _The Daily Prophet_. “No idea what it is, or who it was from, and the owl nearly to take my fingers off when I tried to feed it before it went off.”

Remus sits up and stares at the package. He can catch the word _WEDDING_ in heavy print in one corner of the paper, and a smile slowly tugs at the corner of his lips. “No worries, Mum,” he says, peeling apart the newsprint. He grins at the square candle before him, emblazoned with the Malfoy crest and a crude drawing in red ink where it should say _Lucius Malfoy & Narcissa Black_. _At least someone is enjoying themselves this holiday_ , he thinks, trying not to laugh. “It’s just a stupid gift from an incredibly stupid friend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so........this is short by my normal standards but i had like 2 chapters written and then i was like bitch tf is this and rewrote them entirely. so yes it has been a full month since i said i could catch up on writing and was returning to a regular schedule lmfao. but anyway i decided to take a chance in a very unexpected direction and then i became weirdly attached to this elaborate backstory about british-czechoslovak wizarding relations in 1973 and like the ways in which wizarding families were related to the czechoslovak communist coup (life imitates art?) but yeah whatever im obsessed with the nováks and dolohovs for some reason now and have like 4 different storylines going on in my head now. step aside jkr 
> 
> anyway no promises on when im going to update but i'll be in ~quarantine~ in 2 weeks before the semester starts so presumably i'll just be going ham then. catch y'all then —ivy x


	14. xiii. august

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a mostly fluffy, filler-y chapter before the start of 3rd year. i have 2 phat chapters after this written i'm trying rlly hard to stick to a normal updating schedule lol. [lately i've been fully unhinged and making too many wolfstar edits](https://pateldevs.tumblr.com/tagged/%2A). enjoy. —ivy

_a golden afternoon of august: every breath from the hills so full of life that it seemed whoever respired it, through dying, might revive.  
_

— emily brontë, _wuthering heights_

**late august 1973**

James is sure that secretly, his parents are very glad to have all his friends stay for a few days before the start of term. He’s fairly convinced that without them to distract him from the otherwise boring day-to-day of the summer holidays, he might go crazy and take his parents with him. 

Peter arrives by Floo first, his straw-coloured hair a little messed up from either the flames or by his efforts to escape his mother’s last-minute affections. James can’t help but laugh as he trips over himself and falls forward on the rug in his struggle to extract himself and his trunk from the fireplace. 

“Nice to see you too,” Peter says grumpily, but he’s smiling as he gets to his feet, just before a loud _crack_ from outside makes him jump and stumble again.

“Two Sickles says that’s Sirius,” James bets.

Peter frowns. “Wouldn’t he rather come by Floo?” he argues, following James outside.

“Not if he’s coming with his house-elf,” James says, pointing to the path in front of the house where Sirius is standing, an ugly, hunched-over house-elf at his elbow. “See?”

“Well, I didn’t agree to the bet,” Peter says, before James can try to collect his dues, but James isn’t listening; he and Sirius are already cackling and hugging. 

“Give my mum my love, Kreacher,” Sirius says, waving his hand at the house-elf, who mutters something rude under his breath about _half-blood filth_ in Peter’s direction and disappears with another large _crack_. “My parents are expecting guests and don’t want me blocking up the Floo, so they sent Kreacher instead. Charming piece of crap, isn’t he? Oi, Peter — give me a hand with my trunk, will you — I’m fairly sure that stupid elf’s weighted it down with stones just for a laugh.”

They’ve just pulled Sirius’ trunk out of the street when another _pop_ sounds behind them and Remus appears from thin air, his father standing at his shoulder with his wand out. James wonders if it’s just habit; he knows Remus’ dad works for the Ministry and is undoubtedly the secret to Remus’ success in Defence Against the Dark Arts. 

“Remus, mate!” Sirius shouts. He laughs, the sound loud and bright in the afternoon sun, and nearly barrels into Remus. “D’you get my gift?”

Remus disentangles himself from Sirius’ arms and smiles. He looks around, nodding at everyone in turn, and James realises how tired he looks in the harsh light. He thought a week would be long enough for Remus to recover from the full moon, but apparently not. The protective presence of Remus’ father, wand at the ready, suddenly makes sense; Remus himself looks like a strong gust of wind might sweep him away. Still, despite it all, Remus seems immensely pleased. “If you mean the candle you nicked from your cousin’s wedding,” he says, rolling his eyes, “yes. My mum couldn’t understand what on Earth you were up to, not to mention your owl nearly took her fingers off.”

Sirius grins. “Hecuba does that to everyone except my mother. Don’t take it personally.”

James clears his throat and nudges past Sirius to stand before Remus and his father, hand outstretched. “James Potter,” he says, unperturbed by Lyall Lupin’s rather severe features. “Sorry, my parents wanted to be here to greet you, but they’ve actually just gone into town to do a bit of shopping. My mother could cook enough to feed all of Hogsmeade if you let her.”

Remus coughs as if coming out of a trance and nods, motioning subtly for Peter to come forward too. “Dad, this is James. And Peter Pettigrew.”

“Mm,” Remus’ father hums, shaking James’ hand and then Peter’s with a slightly interested look that James dearly hopes is one of approval, before his eyes shift to land on Sirius. “And the young Sirius Black, I presume.”

“Unfortunately,” Sirius says, good-natured as ever. 

Remus coughs again. “James, Peter, can you help me with my trunk?”

James raises his eyebrows at his friend and looks over at Sirius, who in turn is sending Remus a million silent questions. Remus, of course, elects not to answer any of them and instead points at his trunk, which James obligingly drags into the house. 

“My dad’s just worried,” Remus says, once they’re inside, sneaking glimpses out the window. James stands guard, eyes fixed on Remus’ dad and Sirius, both standing with their backs to the window. “He hears all sorts of things through the Ministry. And I think he worries what people like Sirius — people like Sirius’ _family_ — would do to . . . someone like me.”

“What, and he’s not worried about my family?” James says incredulously.

Remus wrings his hands. “Your parents aren’t exactly known for regularly violating wizarding law and paying the Ministry to turn a blind eye.”

“Sirius’ parents don’t bribe the Ministry,” Peter says innocently, at the same time that James shrugs and says, “There’s a good point.”

“Anyway,” continues Remus, “my dad doesn’t know that you all know about . . . me, and I’d like to keep it that way. I don’t want to worry him any more than I already do.”

James glances over at Remus and frowns. “How was last week?” he says, voice low even though there’s no one around to overhear. 

Remus shakes his head silently, an answer in itself, and James looks away again guiltily. None of them have ever asked Remus what he does on the full moons, either at school or at home; they’ve only gone to visit him afterwards. Asking about what it’s like — what he does, how he handles it — feels like a violation of privacy, like they’d be witnesses to something both sacred and profane. “Sorry,” James says, as an afterthought. He _is_ sorry.

“It’s fine,” Remus says. “Looks like my dad’s done talking to Sirius. I’d better go say goodbye to him and make sure Sirius is still all right — I didn’t hear my father shouting, so I suppose that’s a good sign . . . ”

Sirius comes inside as Remus heads back out, and James pulls him to the floor where he and Peter are already sitting to demand information. “What’d he say?”

Sirius shrugs. “Just that I should watch out for myself.”

“That can’t have been all of it,” Peter says disbelievingly.

“It wasn’t,” Sirius agrees. “It’s complicated. Let’s wait for Remus to come back.”

It ends up being a much longer wait, because first James’ parents return home, and Fleamont and Euphemia Potter have never been known for being particularly stingy people, so James and Sirius and Remus and Peter are all forced to have a hearty tea while James’ mother fusses over how skinny they all are. Personally James thinks that while Peter probably doesn’t need the extra clotted cream on his scones and Remus will always wax and wane opposite the moon, his mother is probably right to try stuffing Sirius given how dreadful the Blacks are and the way Sirius eats ravenously at school. It’s quite a bit of sympathetic clucking and a lot of food before Euphemia is satisfied and James and his friends steal upstairs to his room.

“Merlin, your mum’s a gem,” Sirius says, throwing himself on the floor up against the foot of James’ bed. “It’s been a while since I’ve had a meal and actually enjoyed the company.”

“So what happened with Remus’ dad?” Peter says. Sirius screws up his face for a second with the expression that James recognises as a sign he’s about to give an evasive answer, and Peter turns his attention to Remus instead. “ _You_ must know.”

Remus perches himself on top of his trunk and folds his arms; his entire body curls in on itself. Even now, in the dead heat of summer, he’s wearing a jumper. “I have a couple of guesses,” he says, “but I don’t really know. My dad doesn’t tell me half the stuff he hears at work.”

James slides down to the floor next to Sirius. “Mate, you don’t have to tell us. Just seemed weird.”

“Nah, it’s not bad,” says Sirius, cracking a smile, to James’ relief. He looks up at Remus. “My parents have arranged my marriage. It’s not public knowledge yet — at least it’s not supposed to be, but I expect the Ministry was involved at some point, and that’s the only reason your dad found out about it. It’s supposed to be very prestigious and all, and I daresay it doesn’t really reflect on my values very well.”

James tries to keep from outrightly scoffing in disgust. “Your parents are criminally insane,” he says.

“They could’ve done worse,” Sirius says.

“Mate, you’re not seriously telling me you’re _happy_ with this.”

Sirius laughs. “Oh, Merlin, no. But based off the prospects I’ve got at Hogwarts — believe me, it could be worse. No, my parents have arranged for Tereza Novákova to marry me once I’ve reached a suitable age. No doubt they’ve also included children in the contract.”

“The _Nováks_? No wonder the Ministry knows about it,” James splutters, at the same time Remus says, “I hope you’re exaggerating about the contract.”

“I am,” Sirius says lightly, with a hard-set face that suggests the complete opposite. “Anyway, I think your dad was just trying to get a read on me, Remus. I figured he doesn’t know that we know about your — well, your furry little problem.”

“He’d go crazy if he did,” Remus agrees.

Sirius nods. “I get the feeling he’s not very fond of me.”

Remus shrugs weakly. “I’ve told him you’re all right, you know. It’s just — your family. He worries.”

“No, he’s right to,” Sirius says, examining his fingernails. “And now with the Nováks — I can’t really blame him. Two of the oldest and purest wizarding families in Europe — it’s a bit hard to see where a werewolf fits into the pretty picture my parents have painted for me.” Sirius glances up. “Sorry, no offence. It’s just — ”

“I know,” Remus says. His shoulders tighten even further.

“How was the moon?”

The little _v_ between Remus’ brows reappears, and James is reminded faintly of his father whenever he reads something he disagrees with in the newspaper. A tiny scar intersects with the divot, making it look far deeper and more severe than it really is. Remus is far too young to look so old, James thinks, but then there’s little to be done about it. 

Remus sighs. “Which one?” Then, without waiting, “I broke out of my room, the first time. Last month.” He worries his lip between his teeth, rubs a hand across the back of his neck. “And again last week.” Another sigh, then he mumbles, “I mean, my dad’s basically duelling me at this point. It’ll be good to be back at school.”

“Shit,” Sirius says. Remus’ shoulders slacken. “Sorry.”

Peter nods seriously; James hums in agreement. Remus only rolls his eyes. “It’s nothing, really. I just worry about my mum and dad. As long as I’m at school — well, I think Dumbledore would notice if I somehow managed to get out of the Shrieking Shack, with the number of reinforcements on that trapdoor.”

It’s the most information Remus has ever voluntarily divulged about his monthly trips under the Whomping Willow to the Shrieking Shack. James is tempted to ask for more — he can tell from the look on Sirius’ face that he’s about to ask, too, though Sirius quickly dismisses the thought with a guilty look back at James and Peter — but spending their first night together in two months in a weird state of glum moodiness is not exactly high on his to-do list, so instead he leaps to his feet and throws open the clasps on his trunk. 

“Speaking of — besides Hogsmeade to look forward to this year, I’ve got something else for us.” He moves his extra sheafs of parchment aside and pulls his father’s gift out of his trunk, spinning around with the flowing fabric held triumphantly in his hands. “Look at what my dad’s given me.”

**//**

The letter arrives just as they’re about to leave for Diagon Alley, clamped in the beak of a tawny owl that flies straight into the living room window and flutters back indignantly. James laughs, opens the window, and says, “Whose owl is this? I’ve never seen it.”

The owl answers by making a beeline for Sirius, nearly clipping his temple with its talons. He swats at it reflexively, then looks down at the letter dropped at his feet and back up at the owl, which is now perched on the kitchen counter. 

“I think,” he says, very slowly, bending to pick up the letter, “it’s from Andromeda.”

“Your cousin?” Peter says, stupidly, as if there’s another Andromeda out there that would be writing to Sirius.

Sirius breaks the seal on the letter. “She and Ted have gotten married,” he says, scanning the contents, “at a Muggle registry.” He flips the parchment over, looking for anything extra on the back, but it’s blank. “That’s it. I suppose it’s probably better to do it there than try the Ministry or anything else that might get back to my parents.” He tries to hide his disappointment, the sudden pang of betrayal that he didn’t hear anything sooner — but then again, he reminds himself, it’s not as if Andromeda owes him anything.

“James, feed the poor owl. It looks like he’s come a long way,” James’ mother says, coming back into the living room. “Right, everyone has their lists? Come on, then. I don’t want us to be caught up in the rush later in the afternoon.”

Even though it’s still fairly early in the morning and the sky looks treacherously grey, Diagon Alley is still lively and bustling as ever, packed with throngs of older students doing their shopping by themselves and other families making their way through their supply lists. Sirius recognises his Uncle Cygnus and Aunt Druella’s house-elf pushing his way through the street, trying to avoid getting trodden on, a satchel of what must be Narcissa’s books on his hunched back. 

Remus insists they all go to Flourish and Blotts first, and James insists to his mother that they can all handle themselves, so the Potters obligingly let all four of them off the hook with a reminder to return to the Leaky Cauldron when they’re done and a caution not to waste their money (“I don’t want to see anymore contraband in your trunk,” James’ father says, with a twinkle in his eye that suggests he really wouldn’t mind it at all). They run into Madelina Lau as they’re leaving the bookshop; Sirius sighs and grabs Peter’s arm as they leave James behind with her in some conversation only decipherable to the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Evans is at the apothecary when they go to restock their Potions supplies, and Sirius is about to say hello when Snivellus comes round the corner and it becomes painfully clear that they’ve come to do their school shopping together.

“Yeah, would you believe it?” Sirius says, when they’ve reunited with James and are making their way through the cobblestone maze, glancing in every window as they pass. “He spends all year cosying up with Mulciber and the likes of him, and then goes trailing after Evans like this.”

“Maybe he’s holding her hostage,” Remus suggests mildly, looking at a display of quills as they pass by another shop. “You know, Imperius Curse.”

James cackles. “You’d have to do a lot more than that to get me to voluntarily spend an entire day with Snivellus.”

“You know he’s been spending time with my brother,” Sirius says, frowning as he remembers his conversation with Regulus earlier at the start of summer. He and Regulus haven’t spoken about their friends since then, preferring to keep their conversations focused on topics they can both agree on, like _this wedding is stupid_ and _our Mother is so insufferable_. “Or at least, he’s trying to. Offers him help on his Potions, apparently.”

James fake-gags. “Spineless arse. I can’t say I’m particularly hung up over Evans, but _really_ , what a waste of her time.”

“I think I should have Regulus spend more time with us,” Sirius says. James makes a beeline for Quality Quidditch Supplies and he follows, Peter and Remus behind, arguing about whether they’ll have a new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher this year. “What d’you reckon?”

“Regulus? Your brother?” James says, eyeing Sirius warily. 

“Yes, my brother,” Sirius says impatiently. “Who else would I be talking about?”

“It’s a bit hard for us to have him around, don’t you think?”

“Not all the time. Just — I don’t know, on the train and during Quidditch, times like that.” Seeing the strained look on James’ face, Sirius presses on hurriedly. “Look, I know he’s not even in our year, but Reg is a bit — hm — he’s just a little easily swayed. I don’t want him spending all that time with Malfoy and Narcissa, and then Snivellus on top of it, especially if Snivellus is still hanging around Mulciber. Regulus gets enough of the pure-blood shit at home, is all.”

“Mm,” James says, eyes fixed on the new Nimbus model on display in the window. Sirius wonders fleetingly what it would be like to actually fly and play Quidditch, enough to actually care about the kind of broom he owns. He tries to imagine convincing his stern-faced mother to shell out the money for it. “Madelina said her parents got her a new broom for her birthday.”

“You don’t need a new broom,” Remus says, ever the voice of reason. “Anyway, Sirius, I think it’s very practical to have Regulus spend more time with us. The only problem is that I don’t think we’re very good influences either.”

“We’re certainly better than my cousin and Malfoy. Reg doesn’t even hang out with the decent Slytherins! Imagine talking to Snivellus more than someone like Kingsley.”

James sighs. “You have a point.” He turns his back on the broom display. “Come on, let’s go find my parents. I’m starving.”

“He’s just a people-pleaser,” Sirius says, thinking about the way Regulus stares at his plate and nods in agreement at every meal whenever someone asks him a question. “Anyway, well — it’s up to him, really. I don’t want to be spending too much time with him, what with our different years and Houses.” _I’m_ _just worried_ , he wants to add, _because he’s desperate for attention and with Narcissa’s wedding and the deal with the Nováks everything is beginning to feel so real again and I don’t want him doing stupid things_ , _but really_ , _who am I to talk_? But he can’t say it all like that, because Peter will ask stupid questions and James is James and Remus will be worried and _they’re in the middle of Diagon Alley_ , for fuck’s sake, so instead he shrugs and says, “And besides, he didn’t seem particularly receptive to the idea when I told him off for talking to Snivellus a few months ago, so I suppose on his own head be it.”

James glances back at him. “Honestly, no offence, but sometimes you make me glad I haven’t got siblings.”

“Best you can do is the three of us,” Sirius quips.

James grins. “Disgusting.”

Sirius grins back. “Not as disgusting as you.” Next to him, Remus sighs and rolls his eyes. “Don’t give me that look, Remus.”

“You’re so immature.”

“Oh, like you’re _so_ much better. Last I checked, your dad was still bringing you about by Side-Along Apparition.”

Remus snorts. “I’d infinitely prefer my father’s company to that of a house-elf.”

“He’s got a point,” James says, holding the back door to the Leaky Cauldron open for the rest of them.

Sirius swats at him. “Didn’t ask for your input, did I?” he says, and James snickers and ducks out of the way, dancing through the pub to the table where his parents are sat, Peter in tow.

“You know he’ll be all right, don’t you?”

Sirius jumps a little. Remus is still at his elbow, staring at him with serious eyes and a thoughtful half-smile. “Regulus, I mean,” he clarifies.

“I s’pose.” He scratches his head. “I just didn’t realise how little we see of each other at school. I don’t think I started worrying about him until this summer.”

The corners of Remus’ lips tug upwards even further. “Sirius Black? Feeling a sense of responsibility? Towards his _family_? I don’t think I even know you anymore.”

Sirius raises his new Charms textbook to swat Remus over the head, and Remus laughs out loud and ducks away, still smiling, the freedom of their last few days of summer etched onto his face.

**//**

Remus is awoken unceremoniously on the first day of term by Sirius howling loudly in pain. “Morning,” he says dully, wrenching his eyes open to see Sirius hopping about on one foot.

“He dropped his trunk on his foot,” James explains, grinning. He reaches for his clothes — lying in a messy heap on the ground, caught under Sirius’ other foot — and tugs. “Mate, can I get dressed? Bathroom’s yours, by the way, Remus.”

Remus nods his silent thanks and takes the bathroom, locking the door behind him. The steam from James’ shower still lingers on the mirror, wet to the touch, and he takes a moment to stare at his fuzzy reflection before stripping down and turning on the shower once more. He’s grateful for the privacy, unquestioningly offered up by James, who has never once minded anyone else’s presence in the bathroom while he’s still only half-dressed, and who also has no qualms about barging into the bathroom when Sirius is just getting out of the shower. The sight of himself is his and his only, forever and always, he reminds himself, stepping into the shower and picking out the most prominent scars from the latticework across his ribs. 

It hadn’t taken long for James and Sirius to lose their timidness about sharing a bathroom in their first year — Sirius even had Regulus, so it wasn’t as if sharing a bathroom was totally out of the ordinary for him, though from the sound of the Black family, Remus guessed they probably had totally separate quarters — and they weren’t exactly shy to begin with. After the term got under way and they all became increasingly lazy, with Sirius and Peter starting to rise later and later, leaving less and less time to get ready in the morning, Peter had eventually gotten over his sensitivity and stopped waiting for the bathroom. But no such change had happened for Remus; he still infinitely preferred entering and leaving the bathroom fully clothed, too afraid to let any of his friends see his bare skin. Even after they found out about what he was, even after they’d seen him after full moons with grey skin and cuts all over his face, the idea of someone seeing him shirtless made him cringe. Peter didn’t seem to care, and Sirius gave up on his family-instilled habit of getting up early, but James, who often woke early for Quidditch, always wordlessly offered Remus the bathroom to change in whenever they were both awake. It’s a tiny gesture that Remus has come to cherish, a bit of the luxury he has at home.

So Remus finds himself about to enter his third year at Hogwarts with the same friends he started with, still hidden in the bathroom by himself at the start of every day. And he emerges from the bathroom, pyjamas bundled up against his chest and hair wet, to see James and Sirius trying to dip a still-sleeping Peter’s fingers in warm water.

“Aren’t we getting a bit old for this?” Remus says drily, surveying the scene in front of him. Peter gives a little snore and rolls over, one hand still lying outstretched to his side; Remus wakes him with a gentle kick to the shin. “Get up, Peter, before James and Sirius give you a rude awakening of their own.” He glances at the clock on James’ desk. “It’s nearly half-nine anyway; I’m surprised your parents haven’t come to wake us up already, James.”

“My dad believes in letting us get ‘the last good sleep we’ll have in a while,’ according to him. Anyway, Remus is right, Peter, come on. Blimey, your trunk is still a mess.”

They cut it close (James and Sirius still beg James’ parents to let them take the Muggle Underground to King’s Cross, and Remus and Peter share a sigh of relief when James’ mother shakes her head sensibly and says, “Why would we do that?”) but end up on the platform with several minutes to spare, surrounded by the hectic bustling of dozens of other students and their families and pets and trolleys. There are still Ministry officials stationed along the platform, the number not much smaller than when they were returning from the Christmas break, and Remus spots a few familiar faces from graduated classes who are presumably now working with the Ministry. 

“Come on, let’s hurry up and get on the train,” Sirius says, turning on his heel and tugging on Remus’ arm when he spots Lucius Malfoy on the far end of the platform. “Thanks an awful lot, Mr. and Mrs. Potter, for having us — ”

“Oh, of course, dear, it was our pleasure — James, your father’s got your trunk, it’s all right — we’d love to have you again — you too, Peter, and Remus — ”

“Mum, if you keep on with the goodbyes we’ll miss the train — ”

“I’ve packed you a box of snacks for the train — ”

“As if we haven’t got the trolley,” James says, rolling his eyes, but he still grins at his mother.

“Take care of each other — Remus, do make sure James and Sirius don’t get each other into trouble — I’d like to get through one year without an owl from McGonagall — ”

“We’re _going_ now, Mum!” James says meaningfully, and he hangs out the window, laughing and waving, as the train begins to pull out of the station. Sirius and Remus and Peter loiter around the door near him, watching as the people on the platform diminish into tiny specks, and then James straightens up, ruffles his hair, and says, “Right. To our compartment, then.”

The last compartment on the train is home only to a pair of first-years when they pull the door open; Sirius gestures towards the corridor self-importantly and they pull their things together and scurry off obligingly.

“Punching above your weight a bit, aren’t you?” Remus says, snickering, as he takes his customary seat by the window and Sirius flops down dramatically next to him. James is already pulling a deck of cards out, ready for a game of Exploding Snap, and Peter is rubbing his hands together in anticipation, when the door slides open again and all four of them look up to see Mary MacDonald standing in the doorway.

“Hallo,” she says cheerfully. “Seen Lily anywhere? Marlene spent the summer hols with her grandparents up in Glasgow, so apparently she’s Floo-ing into Hogsmeade instead of coming here just to take the train back, and Dorcas is with a bunch of fourth-years I don’t know.”

“Evans?” Sirius blinks. “She’s probably cavorting about with old Snivellus.”

Remus kicks him and smiles apologetically at Mary. Personally, Snape gives him the creeps and Remus gets the feeling nothing good will come of him, but Sirius can be so thick-skinned that he probably wouldn’t let up on Snivellus even if he brings the other boy to tears. “Sorry, Mary, we haven’t seen her. You can stay with us if you’d like, though.”

Mary pulls a face. “No thanks. I’ll keep looking,” she says, and skips off in the direction she came, the door thudding shut behind her.

The train to Hogwarts is decidedly unmagical, like the dozens of other Muggle trains Remus has taken before when his parents think getting away would do them all good, but it’s nowhere near as long and soothing as those train rides with his parents. Instead it’s loud and lively, filled with Sirius’ laughter clashing up against James’, Peter’s annoyed protests whenever they try to do something stupid, and regular interruptions from their classmates as they walk up and down the train corridor, looking for friends — even here, holed up in the last compartment at the end of the train, greetings from students Remus has become increasingly familiar with are frequent. Madelina and Lucas come by on their Prefect patrol first, and Lucas makes Madelina blush by telling the whole compartment about how Fei had come to see Madelina off; Frank Longbottom and Alice Fortescue stick their heads in just twenty minutes later on a patrol of their own, and Sirius is the first to spot their matching Head Boy and Head Girl badges. 

“Good on you two, proving Gryffindor excellency,” James says, clearly pleased with the idea that the four of them might be able to get away with more pranks this year than they could’ve under either Samuel McKinnon from first year or Edgar Bones from second. 

“Don’t try anything,” Alice says threateningly, “or we’ll crack down on you. I’m not afraid to. You’re in our House, after all. Give us at least one night to settle in before you try to start causing trouble, won’t you?”

Sirius gives a little mock salute and laughs, earning an eye roll from Frank and a hair toss from Alice as they return to their patrol.

Lily Evans eventually makes an appearance; she’s Snape-free, Remus notes, with a meaningful look at Sirius, who still seems very bothered by the idea that Regulus might be an object of Snape’s interest (and Remus can’t really blame him). She stands in the doorway, arms folded, and surveys the scene before her (an exhausted Exploding Snap deck, still smoking a bit, Peter sat in the middle on the floor with his back up against the window, watching as James and Sirius engage in some sort of wrestling or something on the seats opposite Remus) with a mixture of despair, amazement, and disgust before clearing her throat loudly and asking, “Has anyone seen Mary or Dorcas?”

James freezes, still trapped in Sirius’ headlock, and stares up at Lily. Remus sincerely hopes his face isn’t betraying his desire to laugh.

“Evans!” Sirius says brightly, not letting go of James. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Likewise,” Lily says, in an unimpressed sort of tone that suggests she finds this the exact opposite.

“Mary actually came ’round earlier asking if we’d seen you,” Remus offers. “You must have missed each other.”

“You’re welcome to wait for her to circle back with us,” James says. Lily makes a face of distaste strangely similar to Mary’s and heads off, letting the door slam shut behind her.

They see plenty more students, old and new: Kingsley Shacklebolt from their year introduces his younger sister Tess, it turns out that Julieta Nicholls has been made one of the fifth-year Prefects, and Snape comes by to ask whether any of them have seen Lily. Remus chooses not to reply, Peter looks at James and Sirius expectantly, Sirius only glares, and James says, “No,” very coolly before pulling the sliding door shut himself. Narcissa Black — _Malfoy_? Remus struggles to imagine being married while still in school — and Walden Macnair, the other seventh-year Prefect in Slytherin, make an appearance together, though their visit is mostly defined by Narcissa admonishing Sirius for looking so dishevelled.

“Marriage has made her fussier than she already was,” Sirius says, scowling when the Slytherins leave. 

They pull out their robes when the sun starts to set and the landscape begins changing again, throwing extra clothes around on each others’ heads and accidentally elbowing each other here and there as they tug on their uniforms. James coughs and politely averts his eyes, and Sirius makes a great show out of helping fix Peter’s tie to give Remus a few minutes to change. There are more greetings and visitors — Mary has apparently packed her school tie from the old Muggle school she used to attend before Hogwarts and barges into their compartment, begging them for a spare tie, which James obligingly lends to her — and then the train pulls in, and everyone’s crowding around to get in a carriage with their friends, and they’re back.

Remus wonders if he’ll ever stop feeling like a small, wondrous eleven year-old whenever he walks into the Great Hall, James and Sirius in front of him already planning their pranks for the year (now with the added assistance of James’ Invisibility Cloak, newly gifted by his father over the summer) and Peter at his side. He loves being home, he really does, with his mother to watch over him and his father to watch over both of them, and spending the last week of the summer holidays with James and the rest of his friends, looking for frogspawn and trying not to get hit by flying mud in the middle of a fight and watching James and Sirius fool around in the air on brooms, but he also loves being back at school, surrounded by his friends and not having to worry about what a burden he is to his parents. He watches the Sorting and thinks back a couple of years to how happy he was when he found an offer of admission had been made, his initial terror when the Sorting Hat was placed upon his head and it saw its secret, how happy he was to be Sorted with Sirius and then Peter and James, and even Marlene and Lily and Mary, and everyone else in Gryffindor.

“You all right, mate?” Sirius asks quietly, with a sideways glance at Remus. “You look a bit funny. The full moon’s not for another few weeks.”

Remus blinks. “I’m fine,” he says, just as “Cunningham, Susan,” is declared the first Gryffindor of the year, and the entire table erupts in cheers. 

The Sorting feels oddly short — Remus could have sworn there were at least half a dozen more names last year, and he glances up and down the table, wondering if anyone else is thinking the same. James catches his eye and scrunches up his face in that very James-like way of scrutiny. “Seems like a smaller group this year,” he remarks, craning his neck to count the new members at all the tables and doing the math on his fingers. 

Marlene frowns. “It’s not that unusual,” she says, beaming at her younger twin brothers, Neil and Andrew, who have both been sorted into Gryffindor. “Budge up a bit, Andrew’s elbow is practically digging into my ribs.”

Remus exchanges another frown with James, then shrugs. “Marlene’s probably right,” he says, but something about the way McGonagall holds the scroll of names, now exhausted, in her fist, makes his stomach twist. Sirius is frowning too, his eyes narrowed at the staff table at the front of the hall as if he’s about to accuse them of some great cover-up. 

“Well, that settles it,” James says, also looking at Sirius. “Clearly, Sirius knows no more than any of us, and I think we can all agree that if anything were to ever be the matter in the magical world, his family would be part of it.”

This makes Sirius crack, and Remus has to duck out of the way, snickering, as Sirius flings a spoonful of potatoes across the table. James immediately picks it out of his hair and drops it into Sirius’ goblet, where it splashes pumpkin juice everywhere.

From further down the table, Alice Fortescue sighs heavily. “One night,” she says, but there’s a hint of a smile in her voice. “I asked for _one_ night without trouble.”


	15. xiv. hogsmeade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok babey did someone say regular bi-weekly updates because it wasn't me!! anyway um yeah i have no brain cells lol pls accept my garbo offerings xoxo

_contrary to the idea that anger clouds thinking, properly understood, it is an astoundingly clarifying emotion._

— soraya chemaly, _rage becomes her: the power of women’s anger_

The two events are apparently unrelated, but Lily still feels a knot in the pit of her stomach when she hears the latest talk in the common room on the first night: the Rowle family have elected to send their son abroad to Durmstrang Institute instead of Hogwarts, and three Muggle families with magical children set to start at Hogwarts this year were found dead.

“No way,” Marlene is saying, her mouth hanging open. Lily thinks she should close it; she’ll catch flies.

Madelina nods, eyes wide. “Yes way,” she says. “There was a big hush-up about it at the Ministry. My mum practically lived in her office for a week when it happened.”

“Madelina, don’t tell tales,” Alice says, but she’s clearly still listening. 

Sirius Black, seated across from Lily, frowns. She’s surprised to find that he’s invested in this conversation; despite having had one or two conversations with him last year that didn’t end in total disaster, he’s still a stuck-up pure-blood prince in Lily’s books. “I’m surprised I haven’t heard anything about it,” he says. “I’m sure someone in my family would’ve heard about it and made it a major topic of discussion at dinner.”

“About which one?” Madelina says, turning her attention to him. “The Rowles sending their kid abroad to Durmstrang, or the attacks?”

The word _attack_ hits Lily like a stone and sinks to the bottom of her stomach, sitting there along with the knot. But what other word is there for the targeting of multiple Muggle families with magical children? _Attack_ is the kindest of the available words Madelina can use.

“Both,” says Black. “I mean, maybe not targeting Muggles — ” even Potter winces a bit at the idea “ — but blood purity’s kind of my family’s MO, in case you forgot.”

Madelina shrugs, sits back, and takes a sip of her tea. “Like I said, it was a huge hush-up at the Ministry. The press office nearly went insane trying to keep it out of the papers, I think. The only reason I know is that I went to bring my mum some things from home a few times and overheard some conversations while I was sitting in her office.”

Lily glances at Remus, who’s sitting with Potter and Black and Pettigrew and picking at the rug with a pained expression, as if even the action of thinking is too much for him right now. His father works for the Ministry, too, she knows, but judging from the look on Remus’ face, this news was never brought up at home. She frowns. “But wouldn’t it have made Muggle news? I mean, three families turn up dead for no apparent reason, surely the Muggle police get involved?”

Marlene shakes her head. “If what Madelina’s saying is true, and this is a Ministry cover-up, it’s hard to believe they’d let it slip to the Muggle press.” She glances at Madelina for confirmation.

Madeline shrugs again. “From what I’ve heard, the Muggle Prime Minister knows, but he’s just about the only one. The Ministry doesn’t like sharing much information with Muggles.”

“Well, I guess we were right,” Potter says, turning to Remus, though for once, he doesn’t seem pleased to be right. “There _were_ fewer people to be Sorted this year.” No one says anything about how three of the students are dead before they even started their first year. Potter coughs. “Anyway, what’s this business about the Rowles sending their kid to Durmstrang?”

“Durmstrang accepts students from all over. It’s not that big a deal,” Black says. 

“‘Not that big a deal?’” Thornton repeats. “You of all people should know what a big deal it is. There’s only one reason anyone in Britain would send their kid abroad to study at Durmstrang instead — to study Dark Arts.”

Black makes a face. “That’s not all they do there,” he says. “They’re not all bad.”

“And _you’d_ know,” Potter says, with a wicked grin that Lily for the life of her cannot understand, but which makes her want to slap him in the face.

Black flushes ever so slightly. “Shut up,” he says. “I’m less interested in this Durmstrang business than I am in these Muggle killings.” Beside Lily, Mary flinches at his candour. “Maybe it’s just a coincidence?”

Frank Longbottom snorts. “ _Please_ ,” he says. “We’ve been hearing about all these anti-Muggle attitudes for years, now. Lucas is right. _You_ of all people should know, Sirius. There was that legislation a few years ago, to try and ban Hogwarts from accepting Muggle-borns?” Alice and a few of the other upper years nod, remembering. “It failed pretty spectacularly in the end, but it still had some support from — ” he squirms a bit, glancing at Sirius “ — some of the more extreme members of the Wizengamot.”

Black sighs. “You can say his name,” he says. “We’re not related by blood, and even if we were, I couldn’t care less if you wanted to drag his name through the mud.” He looks at the rest of the Gryffindors seated around the fireplace and rolls his eyes. “My aunt Druella’s father was a dear old Muggle-hater who was unfortunately a member of the Wizengamot,” he explains for the benefit of everyone else. “Thank Merlin he died early.”

“Sirius!” Remus clicks his tongue, but he doesn’t look particularly bothered. 

“What? He was such a creepy old man, too. I mean, really, if you think looking at the Bloody Baron at the Slytherin table is bad, you should try having some sort of dinner while your cousins’ grandfather is gnashing his rotten old teeth together not ten feet from you.”

“How glad I am that our families were never particularly close,” Frank says drily. “Anyway, well — stuff like that’s been happening for the last couple of years. I can’t really say that I’m surprised that this has happened — I suppose it’s just the latest escalation. That’s not to say I agree with it, or anything,” he adds quickly, and the rest of the students gathered round murmur in agreement.

“Well, like I said — I’m sure if there was anything to it I would’ve heard about it,” Black says, still looking decidedly unconvinced that there _isn’t_ anything to it. “I mean, my uncle practically runs the pure-blood gossip mill.”

It’s sickening to Lily, how conversational Sirius and Frank can be, how all of them are. It’s all just gossip to them, like Birmingham. For a moment she feels ready to scream, at the common room, at the teachers for surely knowing and not saying anything, at the Ministry for treating this like some internal scandal to cover up instead of something that should matter. 

“It’s for everyone’s good,” Dorcas says in a low voice, touching Lily’s shoulder as if she’s reading her mind. “Believe me. My dad left my mum after he found out she was a witch. Can you believe what Muggles would do if they found out there was a whole world of people like us? The Ministry would have a lot more to deal with then besides just — well, you know. Out of the frying pan, into the fire, as they say.”

Lily hums. Dorcas is probably right, she knows — either that or she just has a touch more sensitivity than the rest of them, being half-blood — but the casualness of it all still gnaws at her. They’re really sitting here, scattered around the sofas and on the floor in front of the fireplace, talking about blood purity and what a bunch of pure-blood bigots would want to do to people like her, over cups of tea and cocoa as if this is any sort of fun after-supper conversation.

“I think that’s enough talking,” Alice says after they’ve all sat in uncomfortable silence for a few seconds. She claps her hands together and stands up. “I’m knackered already — thank Merlin we haven’t got classes tomorrow, or I think McGonagall might hex me if I fall asleep in class . . . someone help the first years get settled in, I can’t be bothered . . . ”

“Amazing Head Girl you’re turning out to be,” Potter jokes as he gets to his feet and helps up Pettigrew. Alice only rolls her eyes.

Marlene holds a hand out to Lily and Mary each, pulling them to their feet. “Come on,” she says. “That was such crazy news. It’s so sad, those Muggle families; I can’t really bear to be down here any longer.” She brightens. “Anyway, d’you all get your Hogsmeade forms signed? It’ll be nice to go into the village, don’t you think?”

Lily thinks about the sullen look Petunia had given her when the Hogwarts owl had arrived at breakfast with her letter and she’d given the Hogsmeade form to her mother to sign. _I can’t win_ , _whatever side I’m on_ , _can I_? she thinks dully. She looks at Marlene and sighs. “Yeah,” she says, finally. “It’ll be nice.”

**//**

**mid-september 1973**

The first full moon of the term does not go well.

Remus groans as he rolls onto his back and gingerly presses a hand to his ribs. Maybe it’s the knowledge that his father is struggling to contain him, that being locked in his room back home is no longer so much of a solution as it is just a temporary measure until some better option presents itself. Maybe it’s the stress of transforming mid-week, knowing that he’ll have one less day to complete the essay McGonagall set on her introductory lecture on Animagi and that as the workload from all their other classes picks up, he’ll surely end up scrambling to finish the stupid essay next week, the day before it’s due. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s alone again, without his father waiting on the other side of the door and his mother ready to hug him and clean up the new scratches on his face when he wakes up. Whatever it is, Remus doesn’t really have the energy or presence of mind to care right now. He can hear Madam Pomfrey’s footsteps approaching on the other side of the trapdoor, and all he really cares about now is trying to make himself decent.

They make the trek back up to the castle, Madam Pomfrey waiting patiently when Remus has to pause to catch his breath, hands on his knees, every fifty feet or so. The Hospital Wing is thankfully empty, and as he gets into bed and Madam Pomfrey draws the curtains around him, Remus thinks he could probably sleep for a full day if she let him.

He doesn’t; instead he sleeps for what’s probably a few hours and is awoken by something dropping on his foot. 

“Peter! Honestly — ”

“Shh! Do you _want_ to wake him?”

“ _Me_? Did you just see Peter drop a textbook on his foot?”

“Well, don’t make it worse.”

“It’s fine,” Remus says, stirring. He throws one hand over his eyes. “I’m awake now anyway.”

“Sorry,” Peter’s voice says sheepishly. Remus blinks his eyes open and sees Peter standing at the foot of his bed, a pile of textbooks in his arms. “We brought you some homework, though.”

Remus doesn’t really feel like doing homework right now — or for the next couple of days, for that matter — but James and Peter are looking very pleased with themselves, so he rearranges his face into something that hopefully resembles contentment and says thanks. 

“We just came from lunch. We were going to bring you something to eat,” Sirius says, “but I didn’t think you’d be up to it.”

Remus thinks of the Great Hall and the multitude of smells — sharp, sweet, raw vegetables, freshly baked bread, roasted tomatoes — and balks. “No,” he agrees. “I wouldn’t.”

“You missed a half-terrible Potions class,” James says, brightening, in a sort of offer to cheer Remus up. “We reviewed Strengthening Solutions, so you’re not behind — but Slughorn’s extra points went to Snivellus.”

“Don’t worry, James,” Sirius says, clucking. “When the news gets out that Tereza Novák and I are supposed to get married, old Sluggy’s nepotism will finally kick in and swing in our favour.”

James snorts. “Anyway, the girls looked like they were going to have a fit. One of the Slytherins at the next bench must have said something — Evans looked like she was going to have a fit and Marlene nearly took Mulciber’s head off.”

“Prick deserves it,” Sirius mutters, clearly still hung up on last year’s fight in the Potions corridor. “She probably would’ve too, if Slughorn hadn’t been around.”

Remus hums. He’s unsurprised; since last year, when Gryffindor and Slytherin started taking Potions together, there’s always been the beginnings of a row simmering between everyone at all times. No doubt Mulciber said something against Muggle-borns and set the girls off. Remus’ mind immediately jumps to the conversation from the Gryffindor common room the first night back, when Madelina told James the news and everyone else had gradually clustered around them like moths to a flame. It’s been weighing on Remus since then. If Madelina is to be believed — and Remus really isn’t sure why she wouldn’t be telling the truth — then surely his father would have had some knowledge of the events. He glances at Sirius unconsciously. The extra conversation Lyall had insisted on having with Sirius back in August suddenly makes more sense; Remus can only hope his father’s suspicions about Sirius being a Black have been sufficiently dealt with since then.

“It’s a wonder Lily’s still friends with him,” Remus finally says, frowning as he remembers James and Sirius pointing out Lily and Snape doing their school shopping in Diagon Alley together. He can’t really be bothered to think of anything more astute to say, but everyone’s looking at him as if they’re expecting him to have more of a reaction to this news of today’s class.

James claps his hands together. “See, that’s what _I’ve_ been trying to say!”

“Even after what Madelina told us,” Peter says, eyes wide. “Evans was proper ticked off then,” he adds at James, who nods vigorously and is opening his mouth to say something else when Sirius interrupts.

“I think Remus is probably tired,” he says.

“Oh,” James says, closing his mouth again and looking at Remus, who tries to put on his most pathetic-looking face in an attempt to encourage them all to leave.

“It’s not that I’m not glad to see you,” Remus says. “My head just feels like someone is beating it with a rock.” He nods at the stack of textbooks on his bedside table, though the chances of getting through any of McGonagall’s essay is before leaving the Hospital Wing are slim. “Thanks for the homework.”

“Yeah,” says Peter, looking very proud of himself. 

Sirius touches Remus’ hand with his finger, a gentle poke on the inside edge of his thumb. “See you tonight?” he says quietly. It’s a question, a hope, a wish. 

Remus looks up at Sirius and then looks away almost just as quickly. He can’t really think of anything to say for a moment, his cheeks burning under Sirius’ gaze. “Yeah,” he says finally, just as softly. “I’ll see you tonight.”

**//**

**late october 1973**

Filch posts the notice about the first Hogsmeade weekend of the year just as Lily is leaving the Great Hall, and Marlene claps her hands together with excitement. 

“Oh, you’re going to love it,” she says, grabbing Lily and Mary both by their wrists and immediately reeling off half a dozen of her favourite places to go with her family whenever they’re in the village. In all honesty, it sounds like any other village to Lily, but she lets Marlene have her moment anyway.

“ — Honeydukes is everybody’s favourite, really, but there’s loads of other places that sell weird little sweets,” Marlene is saying, and Lily continues her periodic nodding when a figure in the corner of her vision catches her eye.

“Sev!” she says, recognising the hunched shoulders and ill-fitting cloak. She disentangles herself from Marlene, who’s now caught up promising her younger brothers that she’ll visit Honeydukes to replenish their supply of Drooble’s, and rushes forward to catch Sev. They haven’t had many chances to talk to each other since the start of term; Lily’s given up on trying to talk to him when he’s around the rest of his friends at the Slytherin table or in class. “Sev — wait!”

He reaches the first landing of the staircase and turns around to wait for her. “Lily,” he says. He could sound a little more enthusiastic about seeing her, but Lily decides to chalk up his bland response to the fact that all the third years had to stay up late for Astronomy last night.

“First Hogsmeade weekend is in a few days,” Lily says.

Sev blinks, first at her and then at the entrance hall below where the notice has been posted. “Oh, yes,” he says, and then falls silent again, either too hesitant to ask if they’re going together or simply too thick to twig on.

“I thought we could go together.”

Sev’s face brightens considerably. “Oh,” he says again. “Yeah. I didn’t think you’d want to come with me — I thought you’d be with your lot of friends.” He glances over the banister at the entrance hall again, where Mary, Marlene, and Dorcas are still stood. “McKinnon seemed like she had a good grasp of the place to show you around.”

“She grew up here,” Lily says, “she can’t exactly help it, can she? Anyway, you were the first one to teach me anything about magic — I thought you could be the first one to show me around Hogsmeade.”

Sev brightens even more, and he smiles at Lily — a phenomenon that has become less and less frequent since they came to school. “I’ll see you Saturday morning, then,” he says, and then ducks his head and heads off in the direction of the library.

Saturday comes with a rather threatening-looking sky and a couple of drizzles of rain, but no one takes any notice. Even the upper years are sharing in the excitement, eager for an excuse to take at least part of a weekend off after a grueling first few months; Lily overhears Frank, Alice, Madelina, and a couple of the other seventh and sixth years from other Houses making plans to get day-drunk together. Sev is waiting for Lily outside the Great Hall when she finishes breakfast, and she waves a dubious-looking Mary off before taking Sev by the crook of his elbow and getting in line for McGonagall to check permission slips. It’s been so long — nearly a year, probably longer — since they’ve spent time together like this. With Sev splitting his time between his father’s in Spinner’s End and his mother’s in Leicester, they hardly get a chance to see each other without friends, and when they do, Petunia’s always there, waiting to make some biting comment.

Recently, thinking about Petunia back home has become something of an annoyance for Lily: the accusations of _abnormal_ and _freak_ , the disapproving looks whenever Lily mentions school, the way Lily always has to soothe Petunia’s feelings. Petunia’s older, she ought to be the one sucking it up and getting over it — and she’s had three years at this point — more, even — to come to terms with the fact that she and Lily are different. Their paths were bound to separate at some point, Lily thinks practically, and Petunia should’ve known better than to pretend otherwise. More than that, though, it’s Petunia’s downright dislike of magic and everything associated with it that bothers Lily: Petunia has come to start ignoring not just Lily’s magic, but Lily herself for being magical. Over the summer, Petunia had eyed Lily’s summer homework with a nasty look that resembled the sort of disparaging glances Lily recognises from Mulciber. It made Lily want to scream when it first happened, and then again on the first night of term. _What do you want me to do_? _I’m either witch or Muggle_ , _which do you want from me_? Now, arm-in-arm with Sev, making their way down the High Street in Hogsmeade for the first time in the grey drizzling mist, Lily feels a sense of liberation. There’s no Petunia here and no Mulciber, and it feels like they’re nine years old again, making flowers bloom in the palms of their hands. It’s them against the rest of the world.

Sev takes her to an apothecary first, a little shack wedged in between the Hog’s Head and a bookshop. Lily’s fairly certain that Hogsmeade is just as new to Sev as it is to her, but as they wander through the apothecary, Sev pointing at the odd jar or vial here and there with some interesting fact about it, she finds that she doesn’t really mind letting him pretend to know everything. They go to the bookshop after the apothecary, and then Honeydukes, just to see what all the fuss is about, and then stand by the edge of the lot where the Shrieking Shack is, staring at its boarded-up windows.

“They say it’s haunted,” Lily says, hugging herself. It looks so sad, sitting there all forlorn and abandoned. There’s a rickety fence running along the front of the lot, the barbed wire only half-secure and coming away from the wood slats in some spots, but she figures no one’s actually interested in getting closer to the Shack.

Sev snorts. “That’s ridiculous.”

“I’ve heard that sometimes you can hear screaming at night.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Sev repeats. He glances at Lily. “Since when have you been one for ghost stories and haunted houses? I thought you were above Muggle nonsense like that.”

Lily frowns. “Ghost stories aren’t ‘Muggle nonsense.’ They’re perfectly normal explanations for things you otherwise couldn’t explain.”

“Muggles are still arguing about the existence of ghosts in the first place,” Sev says. “That seems like nonsense to me.”

Lily pretends she doesn’t hear this; she’s really not in the mood to get even remotely near this topic. “Come on,” she says, turning her back on the Shack and heading back towards the High Street. “Let’s go to the Three Broomsticks. I want to get a Butterbeer that hasn’t been God knows where before illegally making it into the Gryffindor common room.”

Sev gives her a curious look, like he’s annoyed to find that Gryffindor House has a number of upper-year students who are very committed to maintaining a store of contraband in their common room. She can’t really blame him; from what Sirius Black has said of the Slytherin Prefects, his cousin Narcissa isn’t exactly amenable to turning a blind eye on things like smuggling. 

There’s another little bookshop around the corner from the Three Broomsticks, just off the High Street, and Lily catches a quick glimpse of the window display as they pass by it before double-taking and walking back her steps to look again. The poster in the window is decidedly Muggle, the words and pictures all stationary, and she grins a little. 

“Hey, Sev,” she says, grabbing his arm and pulling him back. She points at the display in the window. “Look.”

He stares blankly at the stacks of books and then back at her. “Okay,” he says.

Lily rolls her eyes. “Look,” she says, pointing harder. “A Muggle bookshop! Oh, this is amazing — so wizarding people can share a bit of our literature, too — come on, I want to take a look. Look, they’ve got Roald Dahl — ”

“But you can go to a Muggle bookshop any time,” Sev says. “There are plenty of them back in Cokeworth.”

“Oh, come on, don’t be a spoilsport. I want to see what Muggle authors wizarding people like to keep up with. Anyway, you might find something you like,” Lily adds, though one look at Sev’s poorly-masked skepticism tells her that’s unlikely. Still, Sev relents, and she leads him into the shop, pointing out which books are her favourites and which books she keeps copies of, which ones Petunia’s reading for school and which ones her dad always read to her after dinner. To his credit, Sev looks a little impressed at the sheer volume of a few of the books and manages a sort of half-interested expression when they come across the fairy tale collections, but he immediately balks when Lily picks up a copy of _The Little Mermaid_ with moving illustrations and declares she’s going to buy it.

“That’s not what mermaids actually look like, you know,” he says disapprovingly.

“I _know_ ,” Lily says, “but look — it’s a Muggle storybook with bits of magic sprinkled in.” She runs her hand over the cover of the book, watching as the mermaid on it splashes back and forth, her red hair trailing behind her underwater. “I like it. It’s like me: something a bit magical and a bit Muggle.”

Sev doesn’t say anything in response, just waits for her outside as she pays for the book and then, when she comes out of the shop, scratches his head and wordlessly leads the way to the Three Broomsticks. The place is teeming with people, most of whom look like students — Lily spots James Potter and the rest of his friends laughing loudly in one corner and a few of the Prefects and upper-years in another — _not drunk yet_ , _then_ , she remarks to herself, though the glass in Madelina’s hand is definitely not Butterbeer — and Sev sidles along the wall, holding her hand, until they find an empty table against the wall opposite Potter. 

“I’ll get this,” he says, already reaching into his pockets. “You already bought the book.”

“What? Don’t be ridiculous, I bought the book for myself. I can get my own drink, at least.”

Sev shakes his head, points at the empty table in a gesture to sit down, and disappears off to the bar. Lily sighs and does sit, thumbing through her new book as she waits, and only looks up when she catches sight of a shadow over the table.

“Thanks,” she says, before the figure has even opened his mouth. Then, seeing it’s not Sev, she frowns. It’s another Hogwarts student, from the year above, maybe; she’s seen him before in the hallways and in the Great Hall, but she can’t quite place him. A clear vision of him in a Hufflepuff scarf flashes in her mind, and she tries desperately to think of his name. _Lewis_ something. _Walker_? _Wilkins_? _Wilkes_? Wilkes. “Oh. Sorry. I thought you were somebody else.”

“Can I take this chair?” he says, indicating the empty seat across from her and then pointing over his shoulder at what Lily assumes is his own group of friends. 

“Sorry, I’m waiting for a friend — Sev, thanks — ”

Sev sets the Butterbeers down on the table. “Lewis,” he says in greeting, sounding a bit surprised. Then, with a sideways glance at Lily, he explains, “Lewis often studies in the library with us.” 

“I help out where I can,” Wilkes says, grinning at Lily. She looks away quickly; there’s something off-putting about the glint in his eyes. “Severus can be a bit of a hopeless case when it comes to Transfiguration — ”

“Did you want something from us?” Sev interrupts, coughing.

“No, just looking for another chair — didn’t realise I was interrupting a — ” there’s a bit of a pause as Wilkes gestures between the two of them “ — but I’ll look somewhere else, seeing as this one’s taken — you’re welcome to come join us if you’d like, over there — ”

“Lewis — what in the name of Merlin’s left tit is taking so long — Severus! I didn’t know you were here, you said you were going to stay at school today to study — oh. It’s her.”

Lily, hardly daring to believe that her luck should always make her a victim of coincidence, grinds her teeth together and looks up. Leon Mulciber is standing there, shifting his gaze between her and Sev, like he’s struggling to solve an equation. 

“Yes,” she says coolly, staring Mulciber in the eye. “It’s me.” She turns to glare at Sev, and she’s satisfied to see that his sallow complexion has a definite flush to it. “Did you tell your friends you were staying up at the castle so you wouldn’t have to come to the village with them, instead of just telling them we were going together?”

“It’s not like that,” he says quickly.

“No,” Lily says, her voice sounding oddly shrill in her head. “I think it’s exactly like that.” Sev doesn’t say anything, so she decides to barrel on. “Too embarrassed to tell your friends that you’re spending time with Muggle filth like me, are you?” She can feel her face growing hot and her voice getting louder, half an effect of her irritation and half an effect of the overwhelming chatter of the pub around them. “And too embarrassed to tell me that you’d rather protect your friendship with them than your friendship with me?”

“Lily — it’s not like that — you’re misunderstanding — ”

“Oh, please. Save it.” She snaps her book shut, and the sneer on Mulciber’s face at the sight of it doesn’t go unnoticed. “You’re so blind, Sev, thinking you can keep me and your — ” she splutters again at the sight of Mulciber standing there “ — pure-blood friends, or whatever, separate. You of all people should know that it’s not that simple.”

Sev’s cheeks, already a faint shade of pink, darken. “Don’t bring my parents into this.”

“Why not? It seems like who our parents are determines everything anyway, doesn’t it?” She’s properly angry now, and at the same time she’s never felt so satisfied, so happy, so full. She’s vaguely aware that the background noise has quieted a bit, and she can feel some people’s eyes on her and Sev, but she doesn’t care. It feels good to be angry; it takes away from how afraid and confused she is. She’s so tired of being patient and tolerant, especially with Sev, if this is the way he’s going to be. “I give you the benefit of the doubt all the time, Sev, when you don’t write me and when you don’t say anything when your friends give me dirty looks and when you get all snippy about my sister — the least you could do is pick a side. I’m either your friend or I’m not. You don’t get to bounce back and forth between them!”

Someone lays a pacifying hand on her shoulder, and she tries to shake it off until she hears Frank Longbottom’s level voice saying, “All right, Evans?”

Sev mutters something that sounds suspiciously like _piss off_ , but even he’s not stupid enough to talk back to an older student, especially not the Head Boy. They might be outside of the Hogwarts grounds, Frank is still Frank, and Lily realises most of the students, including the group of upper years Frank is with and — to her horror — Potter’s group, have turned their attention to the side of the dining room where she’s stood. 

“I’m fine,” she says through clenched teeth, not bothering to look back at Frank. She turns her gaze to Mulciber instead, and then Wilkes, who has an infuriatingly smug expression on his face, like he finds this whole situation hilarious instead of unfair and insulting, before returning to Sev. She hopes her stare is as outwardly venomous as she feels inside, but she knows her face is probably a bright blotchy red, that it’s clashing horribly with her hair, and that she likely just looks on the verge of tears.

Frank tugs on Lily’s elbow gently. “Lily.”

“Lily, wait — your drink — ” Sev says as she’s turning away, in one last desperate attempt to hold her attention. 

Lily looks down at the bottle of Butterbeer in his hand, a hopeful pacifier of sorts, and, taking it with her free hand, throws it in his face. “Fuck you, Sev,” she spits. “Fuck you and all your stupid, stuck-up friends.”

Frank, ever the peacekeeper, coughs loudly again. “I think that’s enough,” he says, and he pulls her away from the table, guiding her in the direction of the older students. She lets him; she can’t find it within her to protest anymore. It’s for her own good, probably — there’s so much more she wants to say, but Lily also thinks she could probably slap Sev if she looks at him any longer, and it’s probably for the best if she never gets the chance to. 

“You all right, Evans?” Madelina says. “Seemed like you were pretty worked up over there.” She holds her hands up, palms out — a sign of neutrality or alliance, Lily’s not sure. Her face is bright red and her voice a little harsh, but her eyes are still serious enough. “Need us to take points off, or something?”

“You can’t take points off in Hogsmeade,” Alice reminds her.

“Sure, but I can keep a close eye on them and find a reason to take off points later when we’re back at school.”

Alice rolls her eyes. “Why McGonagall thought it would be a good idea to make you Quidditch captain _and_ Prefect is beyond me — an abuse of power waiting to happen — ” She breaks off and downs the rest of her drink, wincing a little as it burns her throat, then opens her eyes and looks at Lily again. She points at the vacant chair next to hers — Frank’s probably — in a wordless order to sit. “So what’s the matter with you and your friend — Snape, is it?”

Lily blinks at Alice. Sitting with a handful of upper years from her House and a couple of others as they get drunk isn’t exactly what she was expecting from the day, but Alice seems genuinely concerned and Frank has disappeared, probably to find another chair. “Nothing,” she says, sitting on the edge of the chair anyway.

Madelina raises her eyebrows. “You tossed a drink in his face for nothing?” She whistles and grins round the table at the others. Lily recognises some of them from her own common room, some from the other Quidditch teams, a couple from Prefect patrols. It's a good-humoured bunch, all looking uncharacteristically serious, all the same, and Lily realises, with some embarrassment, that they're looking seriously at _her_. “You’d better watch out, gents, before Evans gets you next.”

“Mads,” Alice chides. “Sorry Lily, but really, we overheard a lot.” She shoots Lily a guilty look. “It was a bit hard not to.”

“Well, don’t feel bad,” Lily says, still annoyed, her blood still boiling just under her skin. “The whole world can know Sev’s an arse, for all I care.”

Frank returns, having sourced another chair from God knows where, and plops down on the other side of Alice. “Got you another drink, seeing as you spent your first on Snape back there,” he says, sliding another bottle of Butterbeer across the tabletop to Lily. “Feeling better?”

Lily nods in thanks. “Not really.”

“Ach, well.” He takes a swig of his drink. “They’re giving you a hard time for being Muggle-born, then?” Lily dips her head, half a nod. “Sod them. These pure-blood families, they all think they’re royalty, like they’re above the rest of everyone else just because they’re older and have enough money to make marriages a business transaction. It’s disgusting. And everyone knows most of these families have some Muggle lineage if you go far back enough. It’s all just an illusion.”

The rest of the table nods in agreement. “Yeah, take it from Frank,” Thornton says. “If he says so, he’s probably right. His family’s about as pure as you can get.”

“Not true,” Frank says. “Sirius Black’s got me beat for that, and probably James Potter, too. Just because my family’s on some charter somewhere doesn’t make us any better than the rest.” He grimaces. “Seriously, imagine thinking your blood can actually be purer than somebody else’s. It’s ridiculous.”

This is probably the most impassioned speech Lily has ever heard from Frank, who normally sits back stoically while Alice goes on her own rants and keeps her in check. He seems genuinely ticked off, though, which makes Lily feel even better about being so angry. “Cecilia here’s got the highest marks in our year in Transfiguration, and she’s half-blood,” Frank continues, nodding at one of the other girls in the group, another seventh-year student Lily’s seen in the library before. “You don’t see me and Alice getting our wands in a knot over someone with Muggle blood being better than us. She’s just better at it, simple as that. It has nothing to do with being magical or Muggle.”

Madelina sighs. “Yeah, well, the younger kids don’t really know any better, do they? They tend to get better as they get older, I think.” She swats at Thornton and Nathaniel Pritchard, trying to catch their attention. “Remember how Lucinda Zabini would never shut up in History of Magic about how great her family was in our first few years? Merlin, if anyone could have bored Binns to death, it was her.”

“Oh, she’s loads better now,” Pritchard agrees. “She grew out of it.”

“See? Cheer up, Evans, your friend will probably stop being such a prick in a year or two. And if he doesn’t — well, if I’m not still around to hex him, then surely someone else will be.” Madelina polishes off the rest of her drink, checks her wristwatch, and claps her hands together. “Right then, I can still calculate how much I’ve spent on drinks, which means I need something stronger. Shall we move on to the Hog’s Head?”

Alice glances at Lily. “We really shouldn’t leave you to get back up to the castle by yourself,” she says. “Where’s Marlene? She knows this place inside-out — ”

“You could always head back with Potter,” Madelina suggests. “He’s over in the other corner.”

Voluntarily spending time with Potter and his little gang is almost as unappealing to Lily as spending time with Mulciber, but she’s not really interested in spending more time with a bunch of upper years as they get progressively drunker, so she hums in nonchalant acquiescence and stands. “See you tonight, then. Thanks for the drink, Frank.”

Frank grins. “Any time.”

“And for the love of Merlin, if Potter says something stupid, don’t go banging his head into tables and walls,” Madelina adds. “I need him for the match against Slytherin in two weeks, so none of that — whatever was going on with Snape.”

Lily thinks it’ll take much more than an upcoming Quidditch match to stay her hand if either Potter or Black say anything remotely idiotic or insulting, but seeing as Madelina’s tipsy flush is reddening by the minute, she declines to mention this. “I’ll keep it in mind,” she says, and, marching across the dining room to where the boys are sat, thoroughly engrossed in conversation, she grits her teeth together and taps James Potter on the shoulder.


End file.
